


The Ghosts of War

by scifigrl47



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: A surprising amount of dancing, Angst, Canon Divergence, Happy Ending, Lots of negotiations and dancing, M/M, Pining, Sword and Sorcery AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-27 00:23:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 60,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2671961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifigrl47/pseuds/scifigrl47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(For the Cap/Iron Man Big Bang 2014)</p><p>Steven Rogers never wanted to be king, but he knows his duty, and he does it well. Lord Tony Stark, the king's appointed consort, does his duty as well, even though he'd enjoy his duty more if it actually involved sleeping with the king. As it doesn't, he's just resigned. The war that made Steve king and cost him nearly everything may be over, but a meeting of old enemies might stir up some ghosts none of them are prepared for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is intended as a sword and sorcery AU. It contains anachronisms, because, well, magic and Marvel super heroes don't mix well with historical realism. The exact time period and landscape were left deliberately vague so that the artists that chose it would be able to have fun drawing what they wanted to draw. If the use of the word 'sandwich' in this setting is likely to bother you, perhaps this might not be the story for you. 8)
> 
> Some elements and canon characters of the Marvel Universe were altered to suit the story. I tried to keep the spirit of the world while letting the characters suit the setting. Some things (Vibranium, the historical timeline, the roles of different individuals) have been changed from what you might expect. Please accept this as an attempt to make dissimilar facts fit into this particular storyline.
> 
> Namor still wears short shorts, though, that's the common element through all of the universes: Namor's booty shorts.
> 
> Warnings for canon appropriate violence, panic attacks and non-graphic nightmares, as well as quite a lot of survivor guilt. Secret identities, and the lies that come with them, also play a major part in this story, so there's some kind of iffy relationship things that happen over the course of the narrative. Part of keeping that secret is willful lying and deception of a potential romantic partner, though this is cleared up before anything of a romantic nature happens. 
> 
> Please go check out the art that was made to go along with this story!!!
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/2687387
> 
> And
> 
> http://rai-kishi.tumblr.com/post/103670043422

He was so sick of war.

Steve swung his shield around, and it had been too long, far too long since it had been in his hand, but it still felt right. It felt like an extension of his arm, of his body, and he was well trained with the sword, even skilled. But it never felt right, not the way that the shield had.

Fighting with his shield again made him think that he might be able to win this damn war.

The last of the shadow beasts charged him, and before he could even bring the shield up, the light flicked through the murky depths of the forest, carrying a smell like air burning in the wake of a bolt of lightning. The beast went down, and Steve turned, knowing who it would be before he could even spot the figure emerging from the deep shadows.

It had been nearly a month since he'd last seen the phantom that haunted his steps.

The armor was the color of blood, perfect and unmarred. When the moonlight hit the metal, it rolled across the surface like a lick of flames. It was trimmed in gold, thin, delicate lines that marked every seam, every curve, and matched the gleaming, flat faced helmet. 

Now, that empty face turned in Steve's direction. “Are you all right, your majesty?” The voice was muffled, and it echoed in an eerie way from behind the metal.

Steve rolled his shoulders, slipping the shield over his shoulder and onto his back. “Yes,” he said, the word tense. “You?”

There was no response. The knight turned, one hand coming up, above his head. A light curled in the center of his palm, a soft white glow that filled the shadows around them. “You should take more care with your health. Your people need you.”

Steve resisted the urge to say something unpleasant. “Why?” he said, already moving through the dense woods. “They have you. Always appearing out of nowhere to save the day.” He sounded bitter, and he didn't care. He'd chased the fighter, at first, before he'd come to realize it was a fool's errand. He'd spent enough time chasing ghosts in his life.

He's learned to just take the assistance the man offered, when it came. Which was never often enough. Steve was fighting a war, and he needed all the help he could get, even from a knight who came and went without warning.

“I am not what they need.” Despite the man's size, despite the heavy plates of his armor, he moved silently. Steve, in a heavy scale mail shirt painted a rich blue, felt awkward and oversized next to him. They were almost the same height, but the Iron Man moved easily, with no strain or obvious effort. “You have your shield again.”

Steve's hand came up, against his will, snagging on the strap, reassuring himself that it was there again. “Yes,” he said. “A friend fixed it.”

“I'm glad. Some things shouldn't be allowed to remain broken.”

Steve turned on him, his sword coming up, slicing through the air. The blade stilled, a bare inch from the side of the knight's neck. “Who are you?”

The Iron Man didn't flinch, didn't even move. Those empty, fathomless black slits in his helmet were impossible to see into. Steve wondered if there were eyes behind that helmet, or if the knight was in truth just a ghost, armor that had risen when its occupant fell, full of a need for vengeance or justice or both.

The Iron Man's head tipped forward. “I am the one who will protect you. No matter what the cost.”

The sword fell away and Steve took a step back. “I do not seek your protection.” He turned on his heel. “I do not have any need of a knight who hides his identity between a mask. Especially not one that appears only when it is convenient for him.”

“Your majesty.”

He told himself not to turn back, not to look. But there was something compelling in that voice, something both familiar and alien. Something that he wanted to identify, but couldn't manage. Something that haunted him. He turned, hating himself for it.

The Iron Man was still standing there, in a pool of light of his own making. “I will always come, when you need me.”

“Then stay,” Steve snapped out. “Stay and fight with us.”

The knight's head tipped to the side. “If I did that,” he replied, a note like laughter rolling through the words, “who would protect you from yourself?”

He flicked his hand up, and the light flared, streaking up towards the sky. “There,” he said. “Your men will be along, soon enough.”

Steve's teeth locked together. “One of these days, I'll have you clapped in chains.”

“I do not doubt it. But until then, I remain your most loyal servant.” The knight sketched a low bow, and straightened up, the light around him disappearing as he closed his hand into a fist. The darkness of the forest swallowed him in an instant, and he was gone. Steve, caught in a pool of moonlight, took a step forward, but he knew it was useless. 

The Iron Man appeared when he needed him. But it was never for quite long enough. As soon as the crisis had passed, as soon as the tide had turned in the battle, the knight would simply disappear again. Steve had seen it so often over the last few years that he no long questioned it. But he didn't have to like it. Exhausted, frustrated beyond belief, he gritted out, “Damn you.” This time, there was no response at all. And Steve knew he was still out there somewhere.

It was more comforting than he liked to admit.

 

*Five Years Later *

 

“As matchmakers, you two leave a lot to be desired.”

Phil Coulson resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Sorry, sir, that is not my job.”

Counselor Nick Fury stalked across the floor of his office, heading for his desk. “Is that so?” There were pages all over his desk, piles of paper, each sheet filled with information. Fury glanced at them, his one good eye narrowed. “My job is to serve the king in any way that I can, as adviser and counselor. Your job is to assist me in that whatever capacity I deem right and proper.” He looked up. “In other words, Coulson, your job is whatever I decide it is.”

“Doesn't mean that we're good at it, sir,” Maria Hill said, her arms crossed over her chest. 

“And yet, you seem to be attempting it.” Fury kicked his seat away from the desk and lowered himself into it. “Do either of you want to explain why?” He picked up a piece of paper, seemingly at random, but Phil had known him for too long to think that Fury did anything at random. “Don't you think we have bigger problems to worry about? Did neither of you notice the literally hundreds of people coming through the capital gates this week?” He waved a hand. “The camps being set up just outside the walls? Let alone the guests who are currently here in the castle.”

He looked up. “We are running a trade negotiation here. And yet, nearly every report I've gotten from the two of you has less to do with national assets and more to do with personal assets.” He dropped the page onto the desk. “I don't think you've noticed, but his majesty does not appear to be interested in acquiring a wife.” His eyebrows arched. “Or a husband, for that matter.”

Phil looked at Maria out of the corner of his eyes. She was looking back at him. Her shoulders rose and fell int the most minute shrug. Phil took that as his cue. “He needs one, though,” he said. “You know that.”

“Oh, I do?” Fury leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. “Explain it it me. Because I'm not seeing it.” 

Hill shook her head. "We need to make an alliance," she said, her voice quiet. "We're too tempting a prize, with too much land and resources, to stand alone for much longer. Everyone knows it. Do you think it's a coincidence that every royal on the continent is going to be in attendance this year? No one's sending a delegation, because they all know it. They all know that this is the year." She waved her had at the desk. “We have the information that you and the rest of the council need to advise his majesty on trade negotiations. But it is a time to start looking at an actual marriage contract as well.” 

Fury rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I don't see any reason to push it, people. This is not something that has to be done on a time table.”

“Isn't it?” Hill's voice was quiet. “Sir. King Steven is the last of the royal line. The fact that he sits on the throne right now means that there is no one else.” Her mouth kicked up in a faint smile. “If there was, he would've stepped down long ago. He is all we have.” 

In the silence that followed, she looked at both of them. “If he dies without an heir, we are looking at a power struggle that will ruin us. We have a handful of noble houses, the Starks, the Storms, the Van Dynes, the Rands. But no obvious candidate to step forward and take the crown. So either we're setting ourselves up for a protracted battle for the throne, or an outside power will seize that moment to overrun the borders, and without him, I do not know if we could rally the people to withstand a concentrated assault.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Time to start the wedding march, gentlemen. We need to at least have a line of succession, and right now, we have nothing.”

Fury studied her, his gaze hooded. “I do not think that I'm going to like what you're about to say.”

"We need to look at her."

"No," Phil said, shaking his head, "we don't."

Hill ignored him. She picked up set of papers, still rolled and sealed with wax. "She is coming. And she is the best prospect we have."

“No,” Phil said.

She gave him a look. “The Lady Natasha is female, unmarried, unencumbered, and the ruler of the largest kingdom on the continent. And one that shares a large chunk of our borders. An alliance between our people and theirs is beneficial for both.”

"We have been at war with them for decades," Phil pointed out. "Since our father's time, and before that. Not always open warfare. It ebbs and flows, but the wars have been...” He shook his head. “You're suggesting allying ourselves with the very people who have been seeking to wipe us from the face of the earth for at least the last fifty years, and more. The people who tried to overwhelm our borders just ten years ago."

Fury rubbed his forehead. "It does feel a bit like handing over the keys to the keep, Hill," he said. He considered the rolled papers, but made no move to open them. "At the very least, it would be giving them a foot in the door, and that's a prospect I'm not entirely pleased with. Any particular reason you're pushing this?”

"Because it is time to think of this rationally," she said, her chin up. Her eyes cut around the room. "Something that we are not good at, when it comes to this particular topic."

Fury waved a hand. "What've you got?"

“You asking me to sell my case, sir?”

“You're asking us to push an alliance with someone who none of us trust.” Fury leaned back in his chair, her rolled pages braced between his palms. “If you can't sell it to us, then I'm not sure how we'll sell it to the people.”

“Point taken.” She took a breath. "There's been a shift in the map. In the power structure. Overt hostilities ceased five years ago. There has been no outbreak of violence since then."

"We've had patches of quiet time before," Phil said. He folded his arms over his chest. "Why do you think this one is different?"

"Because this time, they sealed the borders," she said, her voice quiet. "There's never been a time when we couldn't get spies through the gates, past the borders. We've always had people inside. They've always had people here. It's part of the game."

No one responded, no one acknowledged the truth of that. Phil shifted his weight, mentally cursing that they had to even consider this.

"And when they emerged from their self-imposed exile, the old regime had been wiped from their ranks, and they have a new ruler, one who rose from the ranks, who appears to have had a hand in that."

"Her own people call her the 'Black Widow,'” Fury said, eyebrows arching “And her last husband died rather prematurely, and under mysterious circumstances. Do you really think that makes her marriage material?”

"I think that makes her the ruler of the second largest country on the continent," Hill said. "And with one marriage ceremony, we have the chance to end nearly a century of war. Of death and suffering."

Fury steepled his fingers in front of his face. "Or set up a righteous man for an assassin's blade in the back."

“He needs to make a choice. We need to make an alliance, and the strongest one we can make is one through a marriage. If not of a ruler, then of someone of the royal line.”

"There are other options," Phil started, and she cut him off.

"Who?” Hill braced one hand on Fury's desk, leaning forward. She waved her other hand at the stacks of pages, the reports and the intelligence that they'd gathered. “Let's see.”

She stabbed a finger on one page. “Namor, the king of Atlantis? He is prone to outbursts, to extreme jealousy, neither of which his majesty tolerates. He has no interest in men that we can determine, and he cuts off members of his court, even his own family, the moment they displease him. Marrying his highness off to one of Namor's people is no promise of a lasting alliance.”

Hill picked up another. “The Queen Medusa, of the island nation of Attilan? All our information would indicate that she has a consort that she will not give up. Even if his highness would accept them both, her kingdom is so far removed from ours that it might as well be on the far side of the moon. We can't protect them, and they can do nothing for us. They don't even have the threat of military might; they tend to ignore the battles amongst the rest of the nations unless it directly involves them, and even then, they're slow to respond.”

Another handful of pages were tossed on the pile. “Thor, Prince of Asgard? He is headstrong and rash, quick to anger and quicker to rush into a fight. His brother follows him like a shadow, and I don't think we have any reason to trust him.” She stabbed a finger at the page. “If he stays here, we leave his brother to rule Asgard, either way, the second son sets himself up to rule, and I don't think that will end well.

“T'Challa, of Wakanda? This is one of the first time he's set foot outside of his kingdom in years. They haven't even bothered to send a trade delegation for the past decade. They are isolated, and that isolation is by choice. His first priority, his only priority, is his home, and his people. Any marriage there would lose us our sovereign.” She shook her head. “A member of his court might make an alliance, perhaps. But I doubt it.”

“The Lady Wanda Maximoff,” Phil said, handing over the pages. “A much better choice.”

“Unencumbered, she's not. She has twin boys, and no one seems to know who their father is, or what has become of him. They simply seem to have appeared, as if from no where. And her father is...” Her mouth tightened. “I don't know if he would permit the marriage, even if we were to push for it.”

“She's a grown woman,” Fury said, tapping a finger on his jaw.

“And her father is a very difficult man.” Hill flicked her fingers against the stack of pages. “The King of the Thieves? I doubt his majesty would be able to stomach that. The errant, exiled prince of Skrull? He's a child, and his highness definitely would not be able to stomach that. The Sorcerer Supreme? He's already aligned with the Queen of the Dark Realms.”

Hill straightened up. “The Lady Natasha is our best bet for making an advantageous, safe match.”

There was a moment of silence, then Fury said, “Right up until she poisons him.”

Hill's smile stretched tight. “Actually, poison isn't her weapon.”

“Or she hasn't been caught using it yet,” Phil pointed out. 

“Actually, I'd say that she considers it too subtle.”

“I'm not sure if I find that reassuring, or worrying.” Fury rolled to his feet, his hands braced on his desk, his fingers spread wide. He pushed himself forward, just a bit. “We have guests,” he said, with a faint smile. “Here to negotiate new trade contracts, to make small alliances and make arrangements for the movement of our goods and our people across a whole bunch of new borders. We're looking for safe passage and financial stability, and that's why we're throwing this party of ours.”

He straightened up. “And if our liege happens to meet someone to his liking and make a more personal alliance? All the better. But we're not marching him to the alter with a blade to his throat.”

Fury looked from one, to the other. “Understood?” Phil nodded, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hill do the same. Fury gave them a smile. “Good. And good night. I have a couple of hundred merchants, royals and associated hangers on wandering around my city, and I do not like it. If we'd like to be up to dealing with them, to actually making trade agreements that are gonna do us any good, then it's time to get some sleep.”

He swept the pages into a massive stack and tucked them under his arm. Natasha's report, he picked up with his other hand. “Go to bed. Both of you.” And with that, he stalked out of his office, letting the heavy wood door close behind him with a final sound thud.

“Question,” Phil said. Hill looked at him.. “Are we not matching him to the altar with a blade to his throat because we wouldn't be able to pull that off, or because it's just easier to manipulate him to head there himself?”

Hill sighed, a faint breath of an exhale. “That's the problem with you, Phil,” she said, a ghost of a smile rolling over her face. “You always think it's one or the other. Sometimes, it's both.” 

“Wonderful,” Phil said.

*

"This is ridiculous."

"So you keep saying." Tony hid a smile by bending his head over his book. "Repeatedly. Adamantly. But repeatedly."

Steve slumped a little lower in his chair, his head falling back. He scraped a hand over his face, disordering his hair. He'd catch hell for that, and for the way that he was wrinkling one of his best court outfits, but Tony knew better than to point it out. For a man who was usually the very model of a mild-mannered royal, when he got his back up, he was a handful.

Tony reached for the wine bottle. Without even looking, he filled a glass. "Heavy is the head that wears the crown," he said, his voice wry. He put the empty bottle aside and scooped up the glass. "Here," he said, offering it to Steve. "You need this more than I do."

Steve gave him a look, but took it. At Tony's knowing smirk, he gritted out, "It's just so you don't show up completely drunk."

Tony's eyebrows arched, even as he turned his attention back to his book. "I should not show up at all, Steve, and you know it."

"I know you're showing up, and if you try to avoid one of the few duties that you have, I will send the guards to drag you to the great hall by force," Steve muttered into his glass.

"No, you won't," Tony said, amused. "You have far more sense than that."

"One job," Steve grumbled, sounding for all the world like a petulant child.

Tony snapped his book closed with one hand. "One job? One?"

Steve's eyes rolled up. "And here we go."

"One job?" Tony repeated. "My lord, I am your chief smithy, I am your minister of armaments, charged with keeping the ranks of your army and your knights in fine fettle. I am your architect and your builder and your civil engineer, overseeing the building of your walls and your fortresses and your roads." He tossed the book onto an already overloaded table, and for a moment, the wood seemed to groan under the weight of its burden. "I am your scholar, and your jester, and your historian." 

Steve was watching him, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You really enjoy listing all of that, don't you?"

"I get few enough benefits from my many, many positions, my lord, so my joy in reminding you of them seems little enough." Tony swept a hand through his hair, ignoring the dust that unsettled.

"One job," Steve said, sipping his wine. 

Tony threw his hands in the air. "Steve, you're hosting a banquet of potential marriage partners.”

“We're negotiating trade deals,” Steve said, stubborn in a way that only he could be. “And that is the only purpose of this gathering.”

Tony gave him a pitying look. He considered getting into this fight, but judging by the set of Steve's chin, he wasn't going to win it. Tony decided it was easier to ignore the whole interruption. “It is considered in bad form to bring your current consort."

Steve's brows snapped down. "I need you there."

"You really do not," Tony said. He dropped into the chair next to Steve. Steve held out the half full wine glass, and Tony took it, taking a sip. "Excellent vintage," he said, handing it back.

"I'd expect nothing less of your cellars." Steve's smile was a little easier, a little wider.

"This was from your cellars."

"Then I'd expect nothing less of what you'd choose to steal from my cellars," Steve said, his smile growing even broader. "Tony..."

Tony gave him a look. "Steve..."

Steve leaned forward, his arms braced on his knees, his head hanging down, the wine glass clasped between cupped palms. "You are my consort, my adviser, my best friend."

"This smacks of regal pressure," Tony said.

"No pressure," Steve said. He glanced over, eyes bright blue beneath the fringe of pale hair. He gave Tony a smile that seemed resigned somehow. "Just a request."

Tony squeezed his eyes shut. "It is difficult to convince a foreign noble of your marriage intent with your current lover standing next to you," he pointed out, exhausted already.

"We're not lovers. And I am not intending any marriage."

"But the world thinks we are lovers." And they'd had this discussion so many times that it felt familiar, almost comforting. "You know that."

Steve's eyes slid away. "You said you were fine with that."

"If I'd had any objections, you would've heard them by now." Tony kept his eyes on his outstretched legs. These pants were probably a loss, at this point, they were fit only for the fireplace. He brushed idly at the material anyway, trying to get rid of the worst of the soot. "However, if you hope to make a marriage match-"

Steve snorted, and buried his face in the wine glass again. "It's like he's not even listening to me,” he said to no one in particular. “This has nothing to do with what I hope will happen, and you know it."

Tony glanced at him. "You don't have to do this."

"You know I do." Steve pushed himself to his feet, pausing to hold the glass out to Tony. "I have responsibilities, too."

Tony took it from him, draining the last sip of wine with care. "You are our liege, our leader, our noble lord-"

"Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?" Steve asked, his lips twitching.

Tony rolled the stem of the empty glass between his fingers. "All you have to do is rule, Steve," he said, his voice quiet. "But it's been years since Lady Peggy died. I think that everyone just wants you to stop being..." He paused, trying to find a diplomatic way of saying this. He gave up. "Alone."

"I'm not alone," Steve said. He leaned over, one hand braced on the arm of Tony's chair. "I have you." His head tipped forward, and he met Tony's eyes from under the sharp line of his brows. "Don't I, Tony?"

Tony poked a finger at him. "This. This is guilt."

"This is strategic use of my powers," Steve said with a faint smile. He straightened up. "I won't make you do anything you're uncomfortable with. You know that. But Tony-" He pushed a hand through his hair, disordering it again. "I would really appreciate having a friend in that room."

He held out for another moment, maybe two, before he broke. Pushing himself to his feet, Tony said, "Everyone in that room will be your friend, or be desperately looking to be your friend." He reached up, flicking Steve's hair back into place with a twitch of his fingers. 

Steve made a face. "You're the one who can handle these sort of diplomatic functions," he said. He caught Tony's wrist when Tony would've continued fussing with his hair. His grip was firm, and familiar. "I could order you."

"Sorry, but as consort, I'm not required to obey you," Tony said, grinning. "The privilege of my position."

"But you do."

"Because occasionally, it amuses me to do so." Tony knew he should pull his arm from Steve's grip. He wasn't holding on with any force. There was no threat to it, no strain. Just the contact of warm fingers on the bare skin of his wrist, and it felt nice. Which was all the more reason that he should remove it. "I do not think this is one of these times."

Steve smiled. "Yes. It is."

Tony opened his mouth, a cutting reply hovering on his tongue, but a knock on the door interrupted him. "Come in," he said, tugging against Steve's grip. His fingers released, and Tony took his hand back.

Pepper opened the door, her pleased face getting tight and unhappy in the space of two steps. "I knew I would find you here," she said, and both men looked at each other, then back at her, both mouths opening, and Pepper held up a hand, holding them off. "Your majesty, you have matters to attend to."

"She's mad," Tony said to Steve. "She's calling you 'your majesty.'"

Steve ignored him. "I do have things to attend to," he agreed. "And this was one of them."

Pepper's cutting gaze moved to Tony, who winced. "I'll handle this," she said, with a pleasant smile. “You are needed downstairs, my liege.”

“I'll come,” Tony said, and Pepper advanced on him.

“You absolutely will not,” she said. “The guests have already begun arriving, and you look a proper mess.”

Steve gave him a smile. “I'll see you this evening,” he said, with that sort of regal approval that he adopted when he was getting his way. He got his way a lot. Such was the benefit of being the damn king.

Tony watched him go. “I am not doing this,” he said, reaching for his book.

Pepper took hold of the back of his shirt, and his elbow, and spun him on his heel, shoving him towards his bathing chambers. “You most certainly are. You will not leave him to navigate this particular battlefield alone, Anthony.”

“Why should I-” He gave up, letting her muscle him in the direction of his massive brass tub. “Horrid woman.”

“Obstinate man,” Pepper said, unconcerned. She pushed her sleeves back. “Strip. Or I shall do it for you?”

Tony's eyebrows arched, pressing a hand to his chest. “How forward of you.”

She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched. "You're filthy," Pepper said. “What have you possibly been up to?”

"I was dealing with the repairs in the-" Tony choked on grit when she grabbed his shirt and pulled it off over his head. "In the catacombs."

"In the catacombs?" Her voice rose to a sharp pitch. "Today?"

"It needed doing!" Tony started unfastening his pants before she could do it. Some humiliations, he could still avoid. 

"Today?"

He shoved his pants down and stepped out of them, kicking them towards the roaring fire on the hearth. "Throw the shirt in there, too, and yes, today."

Pepper scooped up his pants with the tip of the fireplace poker and transferred the fabric into the blaze. "What were you thinking? You knew you-"

"I thought he'd have the sense not to show up at what amounts to a marriage negotiation with his male consort!" Tony snapped. "I thought that I wouldn't have to deal with this. I truly thought I'd be-"

"You thought that if you got dirty enough and hid in the lower basements, you could get away with skipping this," Pepper interrupted.

He paused. "No," he said at last. It sounded weak to his own ears. "Pepper-"

“You had to know that he would want you there,” she said, turning to the tub. 

“I was hoping that for once, he wouldn't ask.” Tony shucked the rest of his clothes as she filled the bath. The water pipes and heater had been his own work, and he was still a bit pleased with how it had turned out. Now, however, he wished she'd been forced to have water brought up from the kitchens. It would have been a reprieve, at least.

“But you knew he would.”

“I was hoping he wouldn't!” Tony filled the sink basin, splashing water on his face and hair, removing the worst of the grit. 

“You have obligations. It's time to live up to them,” Pepper said, clearly having no pity for him. She dumped salts into the bathwater with a heavy hand.

“Those are expensive,” Tony pointed out.

“As the person who keeps the books for this entire keep, I am aware.” She gave him a tight lipped smile. “Nothing but the best for the king's consort.”

Tony's teeth locked. “The one benefit to his marriage, Pepper, is that I will be freed from this farce.” It wasn't much of a benefit. He hated the thought, the very concept of it. Of Steve married. Of Steve not needing him to keep the world at bay any longer. Of Steve having someone who loved him, who adored him, who could do that.

“It is not a farce. You're an excellent consort,” Pepper said, and not even she could maintain a straight face.

Tony stepped into the bath. “He is mad, you know that, don't you?” He sank down into the water, hissing as the hot, salt-laced water stung at a thousand tiny nicks and cuts in his skin. He always had some injury, somewhere. Usually more than one. 

“He makes the rules work for him.” Pepper snatched a wash cloth from the basket beside the bath. She rubbed it with a bar of soap with a bit more energy than was strictly necessary. Tony recognized the signs of strain, in her face, in her actions. “The king has always had a consort, a personal adviser that is not part of the council, but is rather there for the king and only the king. No politics, no ulterior motive.” She slapped the cloth against Tony's shoulder. “There has always been a consort.”

“By which you mean, the king has always had a mistress, or a bedmate,” Tony said, his tone wry, “and everyone politely pretended that it was a 'personal adviser.'” He winced as Pepper's hands dug into his back. “Are you trying to remove the skin?”

“There is something black and sticky here,” she said, “and I do not want to know what it is, so do not tell me.” She pushed his head forward. “Steve has always done things his own way.”

“Steve,” Tony gritted out, “is the only ruler in the history of the kingdom who takes the damn job description at face value.” He took the soap from her. “So I get all the hell of being known as the king's personal whore, and not even the benefit of sleeping with the damn king.”

“Do you know how often I've heard this particular complaint?” Pepper asked.

Tony considered that. “Once or twice,” he admitted.

“Add a few zeroes on the end of that,” Pepper said. “Wash your hair.”

“It's not just that Steve isn't sleeping with me,” Tony mused, ignoring it when Pepper moved away. She was going to pick him something horrible to wear, he just knew it. He sank low into the bath, pouting. “It's that because everyone else thinks his majesty IS sleeping with me, and thus, no one else will sleep with me.”

“You life is full of suffering and woe,” Pepper called from the other room.

“You are mocking me, and I do not care.” Tony took a deep breath, and sank under the water. He came up a moment later, just in time for Pepper to slap a steam cloth against his face. “Are you trying to kill me?” he muttered through the hot cloth.

“You need a shave,” she said. “That beard of yours is getting a bit rough. It's a formal occasion, let's pretend that you're presentable.”

“Pepper?” he mumbled through the cloth. He peeled it away. “He's bringing his whore to the party.”

“Oh, Tony.” She leaned over, cupping her hands on his cheeks, smoothing her fingers through his wet hair, over his head. “He isn't. He's bringing his fake whore.” She straightened up. “I've laid out clothes for you, see to it that you don't ruin them before you reach the main hall.”

He sighed. “Pepper? Will you sleep with me?”

“We did that, Tony,” she said, her lips twitching. “I love you. But when I'm sleeping with you, I want to kill you.”

Tony winced. “Not when we were-”

“Oh, when we were actually making love, I adored you.” She leaned over and kissed his forehead. “It was when we stopped that I remembered that you were determined to drive me mad.”

Tony considered objecting, but it didn't seem like he was fated to win any arguments today. “He's going to get married, isn't he?” he asked.

“I think he has to, at some point,” Pepper said.

Tony nodded, his fingers rubbing at the scars that knotted the skin over his breastbone. They ached in the heat sometimes. “Good. Then, this will be over.”

He told himself he was glad about that. It wasn't particularly effective.

*

“Having second thoughts?”

“Had second thoughts a week ago,” Clint said, without looking away from the window. “Think I'm on about six hundredth thoughts.”

“Is that a thing?” She settled down on the cushion beside him, sleek and lovely and sharper than any blade he'd ever held. She tucked her legs up on the bench, letting the sweep of her black skirts run over the edge like water. 

“Might not be a thing,” Clint said, crossing his arms over his chest. “But it's my life. Guess I'm kinda used to it by now.” He looked at her. “You're sure about this?”

She stared out the window. “No,” she admitted, as the breeze caught her hair, brushing it back from her face. The sun was setting on the horizon, and the last, fading rays gilded her skin. “You have no obligation to stay, Clint.”

“Do you really think you can do this alone?” he asked.

“You're not nearly as important as you like to think you are,” she said, sounding amused. “And I'm not alone. I brought a small army with me.”

“As benefits your position,” Clint agreed. “They're all idiots, though. You know that, right?”

“I'd say, you should go tell them that, but you probably would.”

“I can hit from a distance and run faster than the devil himself, what do I have to fear?” Clint said, grinning.

She shook her head. “This isn't your fault, or your fight,” Natasha said, and Clint shrugged.

“I'm just a mercenary for hire,” he said, leaning his shoulder against the wall. His foot hooked his bow, bouncing it into his hand with a flick of his ankle. “I'm only here because you're paying me.”

“Keep working at that. Someone will believe you one of these days,” Nat said, smiling, and Clint bit back a smile of his own.

“It's not your fault, either,” he said, smoothing a thumb along the length of his bow. “I understand wanting to save someone you love, but-”

“Love is for children,” Nat said, as she stood. “This isn't about love. This is about ending a war before it can begin.”

Clint knew better than to try to argue. “And for that...”

Her head tipped down, just for a moment, then it came back up, her face a mask, her eyes brilliant. “We find what needs finding. We retrieve what belongs to me.”

“I”m always eager for a good losing fight,” Clint said. He shouldered his bow. “That being the case, I'm going to go get the lay of the land.”

“By which you mean, find the lowest bars in the city proper?”

“M'lady, you wound me,” he said, grinning. “I already found them. Now I just have to see what I can pick up by drinking at them.”

“Be careful,” she said. She looked at him. “Be invisible.”

“Is that your way of saying to leave the purple cloak at home?”

“It's a bit ostentatious,” she agreed, a faint smile sweeping over her face. “Try to blend in.”

“These people have sharp eyes,” Clint said. “But I'll do my best.” He scooped up his quiver. 

“Don't take risks you don't have to take,” Natasha swept her skirts out. “And Clint?” He looked at her. “Don't get arrested.”

“You have a lot of requirements,” he mused. He headed for the door. “Don't stab anyone at the diplomatic dinner.”

“Now who has unrealistic expectations?”

*

“What, did no one tell Namor's people that pants are considered customary for our state gatherings?”

James Rhodes, resplendent in court armor in shades of black and gray, gave Tony a look out of the corner of his eyes. “Maybe he's taking his cue from you,” he said, his lips barely moving. “Seem to recall a time or two that you didn't follow dress code.”

“I was seventeen, I was drunk, and it was not a state dinner,” Tony said, arching an eyebrow. “I blame you for that one, anyway.”

Rhodey's head rolled in his direction. “Oh, I cannot wait to hear how this is somehow my fault,” he drawled. “Please, do tell.”

Tony smiled at him around the rim of his wine glass. “You were the one who brought me to the city,” he said. “I trusted you. You were older. Wiser. Familiar with the ways of the court.” He shrugged, putting on a sad expression. “I was just a poor, lost child who'd recently lost his parents.”

“You were a bad tempered drunken flirt, and as much trouble as you gave me on the journey here, you're lucky I didn't sell you to a traveling troupe of actors as a fool.” Rhodey paused. “You already had the wardrobe.”

“That hurts, darling, really, that...” Tony shook his head. “I like to think I've improved.” He smoothed a hand over the his perfectly tailored shirt. “My wardrobe certainly has.”

“It's slightly less-” Rhodey's eyes trailed from the top of his head, down to his feet, and then back up. “Dirty.”

Tony grinned. “I give and I give and I give, and this is what I get in return.”

“Call him 'darling' one more time, and you'll be getting a little something,” Carol Danvers said, coming up on Rhodey's other side. Her court armor was gleaming in shades of red and midnight blue, an eight pointed star in gold leaf in the center of her breastplate. 

“What would that be?” Tony asked, grinning at her.

She gave him a sweet smile. “The back of my fist.”

Tony winced. “Jealousy does not become you, my lady.”

“Someone has to protect his virtue,” Carol said. She looked at Rhodey. “Time for the changing of the guard.”

“Is that your way of telling us that you're taking off for the night?” Rhodey asked, his eyes dancing. 

“I think I deserve it,” she said. “Did you see what King Namor is wearing?”

“I saw what he is not wearing,” Tony mumbled into his wine glass. “Pants. He is not wearing pants. It seems a questionable choice.”

“If he snaps his fingers at me one more time, I'm going to cause a diplomatic incident by breaking them. Perhaps by breaking them off,” Carol said. She looked at Rhodey, her eyes faintly pleading. “I'll deal with the watch?”

“You're going to leave me here? With him?” Rhodey asked, rubbing his mouth to hide a smile. “I deserve better than that.”

“He promises to be on his best behavior,” Carol said, her voice flinty. “Don't you, Tony?”

“Not at all,” Tony said, craning his neck. Namor had brought three very lovely women with him, and they were wearing almost as little as he was, long, curving legs bare down to their jewel covered feet. Carol dug an armored elbow into his solar plexus, and he nearly dropped his wine. “On second thought, behaving seems like a fine choice for my health.”

“Your continued survival might depend on it,” she said. Her hand ghosted over Rhodey's bicep. “Send for me if you have trouble with him.”

“No, you'll kill him, and I like the man.”

“I know, I keep trying to break you of the habit,” Carol said. With a nod and a wave, she strode off through the crowd, leaving stunned and covetous looks in her wake.

“I love that woman,” Rhodey said, grinning.

“You are both horrible people, how are you my friends?” Tony smiled at the girl who appeared at his elbow with a jug of wine. “Thank you,” he told her, as she filled it. “These people are horrible.”

“So are you,” she said, smiling at him as she handed him his glass back. “So you're in good company.”

“I am highly respected in some circles,” Tony told Rhodey.

“None of them involve the many women you've flirted with,” Rhodey said. He shook his head when the girl looked at him with polite inquiry. “No, thank you, mine's just for show.”

“I'll drink it later so it doesn't go to waste,” Tony told her. She walked off, giggling. “And I don't know what you're talking about, Rhodes, women love me.”

“Anthony!”

Tony swung around. “Lady Van Dyne!” he said, laughing as Janet swept through the crowd, directly into his arms. She was laughing, even as she hugged him tight. When she pulled away, Tony took her hand and bowed over it, his lips brushing against her knuckles. “It's amazing.”

“What is?”

He gave her a smile. “You grow more clever by the day.”

“And how would you know the state of my mind?” she asked, but there was a bright, puckish smile hovering around her lips. 

“I can make an educated guess,” Tony said, his tone arch. He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “And you're so lovely that compliments to your looks must be commonplace by now. I like to be different.”

“You could try being sincere,” Jan said, her eyes dancing.

“Now, that's just insulting. I'm always sincere, even when I'm lying.”

“You are a menace,” she said, smacking him lightly on the arm. “I shouldn't introduce you to my friends.”

Tony glanced over, catching sight of the women hovering just behind her. He gave them his most charming smile. “Oh, you absolutely should.”

Laughing, Jan tugged Tony forward a step. “Your majesty, may I present Lord Anthony Edward Stark, one of my dearest friends.” She inclined her head. “Tony, may I introduce Her Royal Highness, Queen Wanda of Genosha.”

She was lovely and strangely serene, her mouth curved in a faint smile, her big, dark eyes framed by thick black lashes. There was a hint of melancholy to those eyes, to her smile, and to call her lovely was too bland a phrase. She was elegant and regal, her curly hair pulled back to the nape of her neck and her red gown a sweep of glittering silk. Her only hint of a crown was a tiara formed of a thin thread of red metal that wove through her dark hair and curled around her head at her temples, framing her face. She offered Tony a hand. “Lady Jan speaks highly of you,” she said, and there was an odd note to her voice. “We are honored to make your acquaintance.”

Tony bowed, his lips not quite touching her knuckles. “The honor is mine, your majesty.”

Jan waited until he had straightened, before adding, “He is not to be trusted.”

“How unkind,” Tony said, laughing. “Neither are you.”

“Then we are a matched set.” She nodded at the two women with Wanda, one a statuesque woman with a sweep of hair as white as snow and dark brown skin, and the other a pale brunette with dancing purple eyes. “This is Lady Ororo and Lady Elizabeth.”

“Betsy,” the brunette corrected with a faint smile.

“Your entourage appears to be quite dangerous,” Tony said to Wanda, who arched a brow at him.

“Well, we have heard this is dangerous country,” she said, laughter rolling through the words.

“I can't imagine who'd tell you this.” Tony turned. “This is Captain James Rhodes, a personal friend and Captain of the Knights of the Realm. Your safety is in his hands.”

“I'll do my best to keep him in line,” Rhodey said, bowing. “But let me know if he makes trouble for you.”

“The cruelty involved in this conversation,” Tony said to Ororo, who arched an eyebrow. “I've done nothing to deserve this. I want you to know this.”

“It is far too late to try to convince us of that, my lord,” she said. “We've known Jan too long.”

“That is unfortunate,” Tony said, and Jan smacked him on the shoulder.

“So you are the one they speak of down in the city,” Betsy said to Rhodey.

“My lady?”

“The Captain, they say, or just-” She looked at Ororo.

“Cap,” Ororo filled in for her. 

Rhodey was already shaking his head. “No-” He smiled. “No, that's not me, my lady.”

“It's King Steven,” Tony said, smiling. “An old nickname.”

“Not one befitting a king,” Betsy said, her eyebrows arching up.

“No, but it was given to him before he took the crown. It's a sign of affection, and he knows it. He treasures it.”

Her head tipped to the side, curiosity lighting her features. “Why?”

Tony grinned at her. "Did you come all this way without knowing the legends and lore of our kingdom?"

Betsy gave him a flirtatious look from under the sweep of her lashes, her cheeks dimpling as he lips curled up. "Let's just pretend I enjoy hearing a good story."

He shook his head, pulling a sad expression. "It's a shame I have no talent for the telling of such tales." From behind him, he heard a rather impolite snort, and he grinned. "Unless you'd prefer to entertain us, Rhodey?"

"No, please, enlighten us," Rhodey said, and Tony didn't even have to look in his direction. He could hear the grin in Rhodey's voice. “I always thought you'd make an excellent storyteller for the city's children.”

“Well, if my lands, skill and bloodline fail to keep me in the manner in which I've become accustomed,” Tony said, grinning wide and sharp, “It can't hurt to have another profession to fall back on.”

“You do seem to enjoy the sound of your own voice,” Ororo commented, and Wanda hid a smile behind her hand. Betsy didn't bother, laughing out loud.

“My lady, you wound me,” Tony said. He set a hand against his chest. “I fear we can no longer be friends.”

“You're better off,” Jan said, hugging Tony's arm when he gave her a look. “Tell the story, or I'll do it for you.”

“You make things up,” Tony said, and ignored her gasp of outrage. To Betsy, he said, “King Steven was very sickly as a child. His mother was a distant cousin of the old king.”

“King Phillips, yes?” Wanda asked.

“Yes,” Tony agreed. “She came to the court after her husband died in the wars, seeking a safe place to raise her son. She was a healer, and her skills were valued, but I suspect the old king would have given her a place, even without that. I'm told he had a gruff face, but a soft heart.”

“You didn't know him?” Ororo asked.

“No, I came to court after his death.” He smiled. “The only king I've known is the current one. But King Steven grew up here, along with the king's heir, Prince James. They shared an education, but while James was a natural fighter, strong and tall and big for his age, King Steven was-” He paused. “Well, the determination was made that he would never be a soldier.”

They were all listening in rapt silence, now, even Rhodey, who knew the story as well as Tony did. “But he was clever, even as a child. He might not have had the body of a soldier, but he had the mind of one. So he was called the little Captain, and later, just Cap.” Tony grinned. “When his body caught up to his mind, the name stuck.”

“I find it difficult to believe that he was ever so small,” Ororo said, her eyes dancing.

“He was,” Rhodey said. “And he was prone to sickness.”

“Even after a doctor was found that could help him,” Tony said, “King Phillips worried about him. That's why he gave King Steven the shield. Other high born fighters, when they joined the ranks to fight, were given a ceremonial sword, or another well crafted weapon that suited them. King Steven, he felt, was more in need of protection.” Tony pointed, to where the shield hung above the central fireplace's mantel. “That shield. He's used it, ever since.”

It was a perfect circle, gleaming and smooth, the colors brilliant in the firelight. It gleamed, a field of red and blue with a single perfect star in the center. “It is his symbol, now,” Tony explained.

“It is stolen.”

Everyone fell silent. Tony's head slid around, not too fast, keeping his violent reaction carefully under wraps. The man was tall and lean, with dark brown skin and brilliant black eyes. He was dressed all in black, the cloth perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders and chest. There was no crown on his head, but he didn't need it. There was no mistaking him for anything but a king.

“King T'Challa,” Rhodey said, inclining his head. “It's an honor, your majesty.”

T'Challa nodded, but his eyes were locked on Tony, sharp and brilliant. “You are Lord Anthony Stark. The king's-” He paused, and Tony waited, unconcerned. “Smith and armorer of the realm.”

Tony's lips kicked up on one side. “Among other things,” he agreed. “And the shield was a gift from King Phillips.”

T'Challa didn't so much as blink. “It is stolen,” he repeated.

Tony gave him a faint smile. “I'm sorry,” he said, his voice quiet, “but I fear you're mistaken. My father crafted that shield. I watched him do it, when I was just a boy.” Which wasn't exactly the truth. He'd seen Howard create the prototypes, one after another after another, learning and relearning how to do it. Tony, hiding in corners and under tables, and at the top of the stairs that lead to Howard's smithy, had learned along with him.

He took a sip from his glass. “He made it for the king. It is in the hands that its creator intended.”

T'Challa's head tipped to the side, considering. “And the material it is made with, is stolen. It was never intended for hands such as yours.”

Tony's shoulders rose, just a sliver of a shrug. “Spoils of war, I'm afraid. I'm told the metal came to us through a captured war camp.”

“It was taken from one of my people.”

“Not by us,” Tony said. His lips twitched. “Unless, of course, one of your people was where he or she should not have been.” He drained his glass, and rolled the crystal stem between his fingers. “Since you claimed neutrality throughout the entire war. Did you not?”

T'Challa's mouth curved in the smallest hint of a smile. “Your petty arguments have nothing to do with me, or my people. We will not be pawns, or weapons for the fight of another.” He stepped forward, the cape swirling around his legs, his footfalls silent. “Anyone, with the smallest hint of talent, can forge a shield as your father did.”

Tony's teeth locked together, but he merely arched his eyebrows. “My father would be pleased with your praise, I'm sure.”

T'Challa ignored that. “What is difficult, what is nearly impossible, is the reforging of a broken shield. That, takes careful training, years of it, to even come close to accomplishing in any manner.” His eyes were slits now, black and fathomless. “To reforge vibranium is a task left to only the master craftsmen of my people.”

His head tipped to the side. “And yet, you managed it.”

There was silence, and Tony stared him down. “That shield has never broken,” he said, his voice quiet. “As you said. Reforging vibranium is impossible. Once it breaks...” He shook his head. “The metal will always carry the flaw.” He smiled. “There's no way to fix that.”

“There is. But not a way known to your people.”

Tony nodded. “Then, as you said. Impossible. For my people.”

T'Challa leaned in. “And yet, you did it.”

Tony smiled at him, not ceding ground, not ceding space, fuck this, fuck this royal fucker in his face. “I am sorry, your majesty. But I don't know what you're talking about.”

"Forgive me," Wanda said, her eyes sliding between Tony and T'Challa. "Metalwork isn't my specialty, but I was under the impression that any metal could be reforged."

"Beating plowshares into swords, all that, yes," Tony said, never dropping his gaze from T'Challa's. He smiled, just a little. "Vibranium is different. Perhaps his majesty would explain, as the expert?"

"No, please continue." T'Challa's smile was dangerous. "I am interested to know just how far your understanding extends."

Tony knew he was being goaded. He knew, and he found he didn't care. Despite the interested eyes of everyone around them, despite Rhodey's presence just behind him, he found he really did not care. He was rapidly getting sick of this royal shit, and he really wasn't interested in playing nice.

"Vibranium is one use," he said, directing his explanation to Wanda. "There's a magical property, that isn't fully understood. The ore itself is easily worked with, easily forged. But once it takes form, it's..." He paused, looking for the right word. "Locked. It isn't metal in the shape of a shield. It is a shield. The essence of what it is, what the creator forged of it, that's part of that particular piece of metal, for the rest of its existence. 

"Which means, if you forge a sword, and that sword breaks, it can't be put back together. It can't be melted down and reforged, made into something else, or even into another sword." His smile got tight. "Once made, it cannot be unmade.”

"It is the ultimate test of a creator," T'Challa said. He rolled the stem of his wine glass between his fingers, the red liquid inside shifting with the motion. "Mistakes are not forgiven by Vibranium. Flaws in the creator become flaws in the creation. Only the most skilled can create, and it is an honor that my people convey only after years of study and apprenticeship."

His eyes were hooded as he stared at Tony. "Your father's work was flawed. He did not understand the severity of the test he undertook. His work was tried. And it failed."

Tony's smile was easy now. "My father had his flaws," he said. "So did his work.” He drained his glass. “But he made that shield. And that shield is as strong, if not stronger, as it was the day that he finished it.”

T'Challa's lips curved up, and this time, his smile looked real. “That, I suspect, has everything to do with you, and nothing at all to do with your father.”

Tony met his eyes without flinching. “If that is your opinion, your majesty, there is little I can do to change it.”

T'Challa took a step forward, definitely well into Tony's personal space now. Tony held his ground. “One would think you would at least attempt it.”

“T'Challa, this is why you aren't invited anywhere.”

The words, amused and distinctly feminine, broke the stalemate. Tony took a step back, the move instinctive, as T'Challa's head turned. One eyebrow arched. “In that, you are mistaken, Medusa,” he said with a faint smile. “I am invited everywhere. I am just seldom welcome, and that is why I do not come.”

The queen was tall and graceful, wearing a gown of heavy magenta velvet that should have clashed with her bright red hair, but somehow didn't. The mass of her hair had been worked into an elaborate hairstyle of curls and braids that left her the ivory skin of her shoulders and back bare. Her crown, by contrast, was a thin twist of silver threads curling like vines around a cluster of jewels. She had an easy smile and stance, and she leaned into the side of a tall, sober looking man dressed in black and silver. She shook her head. “How do you expect to make friends, if you are always picking fights?” she asked T'Challa.

“I do not seek friends,” he explained, but he was smiling at her. “Merely the possibility of trade.” He nodded to her companion, who returned the gesture. “Blackagar.” To Medusa, he asked, “It's not like you to travel with so small a retinue.”

She laughed. “The Lady Sersi is seeking to make a better impression on King Steven then you have made on his royal armorer.” She gave Tony a smile and a wink, and he smiled back. He had always liked her. 

As she greeted Wanda and the others, Tony took a moment to look around for Steve. It wasn't hard to find him, despite the crowd. He was taller than almost all of the guests, with broad shoulders and pale hair that shone in the low light. Despite Fury's protests, Steve had chosen a simple crown of balanced silver that matched the star that hung over his breastbone. His shirt was the blue of a late dusk sky.

He looked regal, and more than a little uncomfortable. Probably because of the willowy, pale brunette that hung on Steve's arm without a trace of self-consciousness. She was beautiful in a dress of green velvet that was cut low on her shoulders, but Steve didn't seem to notice. Or perhaps the strained smile on his face was because he was noticing a little more than he wanted to.

Tony did his best not to hate her on sight. It was not particularly effective.

“So did you make the armor of the Iron Man?”

His head snapped back around, caught off guard. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Rhodey's face get tight. Tony gave Wanda a faint smile. “I had no hand in the forging of that armor,” he said. T'Challa was watching him with narrowed eyes, and Tony ignored that as well. “With all due respect, that individual is little more than a tale told to children.”

“You don't believe he exists?” Medusa asked, her tone curious.

“What they say he has done?” Tony shrugged. “What man could do even half of that?”

“One aided by a great magic,” T'Challa said. “And a very talented smith.”

“He might have some basis in reality,” Rhodey said. “But the Iron Man is a rallying cry more than a man.”

“He is real. I have seen him.”

The words brought utter stillness, and Tony turned. And found himself looking into a face that he knew. She was small, smaller than he remembered, but she was unarmed and not splattered with blood. That probably changed his view of the situation.

She smiled at him. “I fought him, once. Or at the time, I thought I was fighting him. Now, I'm not certain.”

“Lady Natasha,” Tony said.

Her smile was sweet and feminine. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir.”

“This is Lord Anthony Stark,” T'Challa said.

Her eyes widened, just a fraction. “Ah. So you are the king's consort.”

In the strained silence that followed, Tony gave her an easy smile and a bow. “I have that honor, yes, my lady.”

She nodded. “I was wondering who the competition was.”

And with that, she turned and walked away again, leaving Tony gaping at her back. Before any one could say anything further, the bell tolled, calling them all to dinner. As everyone began moving in that direction, polite chatter breaking out amongst the others, Tony gave Rhodey a sideways look. “If she kills me on her way to clearing a spot in Steve's bed,” he said, his voice pitched low, “I will expect you to avenge me.”

“If she kills you, she'll find that bed less than welcoming,” Rhodey said. “But I'll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

*

The flare of light made him curse and throw an arm over his eyes. Tony swore, his voice rough and raw. “What the-”

“Tony?”

“I will kill you,” Tony mumbled, his head aching, his throat on fire. He rolled to the side, trying to dodge the light.

“Sorry, Tony, but we need you.” Rhodey's hand caught Tony's shoulder, giving him a light shake. “Are you awake?” 

“Unfortunately.” He pried his arm away, ignoring the way any hint of light made his head pound. "You could have at least had the common courtesy to knock," he grumbled, squinting against the light.

"I did," Rhodey said, his voice tight. "You didn't wake up."

"I had a few drinks last night. This night. Tonight. What time is it?" Tony asked from between gritted teeth. He glanced towards the nearest window. There was no sign of light at the edges of the heavy curtains, no hint that it was morning. “Pretty sure that disturbing the consort's beauty rest is punishable by a sudden, one-way trip to the dungeon.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Or death.”

"Just about anything involving the consort is punishable by death. Insulting you, assaulting you, accidentally bumping into you," Rhodey said, his tone wry. "You may be the most well protected person in the kingdom, after the king himself. Luckily, you will never file a complaint, and even if you did, the king knows you too well to take it seriously."

"I will have you executed, I swear to god I will." Tony swung his legs off the bed, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Why are you waking me? At whatever unforgivable hour that this is?"

"We have a problem. One of the scouts got ambushed"

Tony's head snapped up. "Shit. Who, is he- Or she-" His pants were where he'd dropped them when he'd come stumbling to bed last night, and he slipped them on. "How bad?" He grabbed for his boots, jamming his feet into them. 

Rhodey crossed to the closet, pulling out a shirt and tossing it to Tony. "Sam," he said. "Not bad. His injuries are minor, and he was nearly home when it happened. But his armor's locked in place. We can't get it loose, and we're reluctant to cut him out of it, since we're not sure how it'll let go."

"Shit," Tony repeated. "No. Don't do that." He yanked the shirt over his head. "I'll get it free, but if something lets go in the wrong way, they run the risk of hurting him." He rolled to his feet. "He's in the hospital ward?”

“No,” Rhodey said, shaking his head. "We took him to the smithy, figured if you did need to work on the armor, you'd need your tools. Carol and Bruce are down there with him.” 

“Good call.” Tony shoved the tail of his shirt into his pants, giving up halfway and heading for the door. “Let's go.”

It was too late for the revelers to still be up, but too early for the staff. Only a handful of people were up now, moving through the cool air of pre-dawn. Tony nodded to a few of the guards and the watch who patrolled the corridors and the main courtyard. He smiled at the kitchen maids who yawned behind their hands and hustled to their work. He thought he saw a familiar silhouette pacing along the battlements, the edge of a black leather cloak disappearing into the shadows before he could be sure.

It was a quick trip, and both of them were in a hurry. In a matter of minutes, Tony was pushing the door open, catching the attention of everyone in his workshop. "What have you done to my armor?" he asked, stalking across the floor. Bruce stepped aside, moving out of his way, and Tony clapped the doctor on the shoulder.

Sam grinned, perched easily on top of the main workbench. He was breathing slowly, shallow little inhales and exhales. "Field tested it," he said. "It failed."

"You made it back, despite being dumb enough to be caught off your guard. I'd say that's a resounding endorsement of my skills, and my craft." Tony brought the lamps up. "Where's the problem?"

"The chest plate and right arm," Carol said, her arms crossed over her chest. "Something's caught, or bent in a way that I can't get to."

Tony glanced at Bruce. "Any sign of blood?"

Bruce shook his head. "Not that we can find. But he's having trouble breathing. Might be a broken or cracked rib or two."

"It hurts when I breathe too deeply," Sam admitted, as Tony ducked under his arm, running careful fingers over the seams of the armor. "Don't know if it's because something's digging in, or if it's because I'm hurt."

"Think it's the former." Tony frowned. "Rhodey, can you stoke the fire? I might need a heat source."

He nodded. "Got it."

Tony glanced at Carol. "You've got better hands than him," he said with a faint smile. Better, and smaller. He had a feeling he was going to need smaller at this point. "Can you get a grip under here and brace him?" 

She leaned in, her eyes narrowed. She looked tired, her hair pulled back from her face in a tight braid and dark circles marking the pale skin beneath her eyes. "Can you do this?" Tony asked, and she gave him a cutting look.

"Tell me what to do," she said, pushing her sleeves back. 

“Bruce, come here and brace his arm,” Tony said, reaching for a hooked blade. “Up, and back.”

“Tell me if this hurts,” Bruce said, and Sam gave a quick, sharp nod. His brown skin had a sheen of sweat, and his head was canted forward.

“Sam,” Tony said, bringing his head up. He waited until Sam's eyes came into focus on him. “When I give you the cue, I need you to take a deep breath. Take it slow, and tell us if the pain gets worse. But breathe in, slow and steady, until you've filled your lungs.” Tony looked at Carol. “Soon as he gives us the nod, slide your fingers under here.” He ran his knuckles along the seam. “Get under as much as you can. As soon as you've got a grip, we're going to have Sam empty his lungs. You need to hold the space he's made, I need to get under there.” To Bruce, he added, “If he's hurt-”

“I'm ready,” Bruce said, with a faint smile. He had a pad of folded cloth in his hand, an array of bottles and tools spread out next to him, in neat, precise rows.

Tony took a deep breath “Everyone ready?” He waited for the round of nods. He reached for a leather cutter, a short, heavy blade with a wicked hook to it. 

Sam eyed it, his mouth pursing. “I think I changed my mind,” he said.

“Too late, should've thought of that before you let yourself get jumped,” Tony said, grinning. He braced a hand on Sam's side. “Ready? Inhale.”

It went off perfectly, and a moment later, Tony's fingers slipped beneath the metal. He didn't even have to look, there was no way he could've seen, but he didn't need to. This was his armor, he'd designed it, he'd forged it, he'd built it and set it on Sam's shoulders himself. He didn't need to see. Blind, and confident despite it, he slipped the knife under the leather strap that had tangled with a bent buckle, and twisted.

The armor came apart, and before Tony and Carol could even pull the breastplate free, Bruce was there, hands smoothing up Sam's side. “Anything?” he asked.

Sam took a breath, shallow at first, then deeper. “Hurts,” he admitted, his head falling forward. “But I don't think anything's broken.”

“That's where you're wrong,” Tony said, holding the armor up. “This is definitely broken.” He made a sad noise. “Did you even try to avoid getting hit?” he asked, disapproving.

“Believe it or not, that was the result of me doing my absolute best not to get hit,” Sam said. He glanced at Bruce. “Am I gonna make it, Doc?”

“Long enough to pay me for my services, and I think that's all that matters,” Bruce said with a faint smile.

Tony heard the familiar footfalls on the stairs, and shook his head. “Now you're in for it,” he said, grinning as he reached for a hammer. 

“Don't I know it,” Sam said, wincing as Bruce wiped away a trickle of blood. He glared at Rhodey. “Who told Cap?”

Rhodey looked at Carol, who rolled her eyes. “I'd guess we have Fury to thank for that.”

“He doesn't miss a trick,” Rhodey agreed, a faint sigh coloring the words.

“Dammit, Sam,” Steve said as he stormed into the workshop.

“I'm fine, Cap,” Sam said, and he was grinning as he said it, that same, familiar grin. He leaned back, his breathing still shallow, but not as labored now.

Steve ignored him, his eyes cutting towards Bruce, who nodded. “Minor cuts and scrapes,” he said, with a slight smile. He shifted his stool closer to the workbench. “Bad bruising. But nothing all that dangerous, and nothing lasting.” His body rocked forward, his spectacles slipping forward on the bridge of his nose. “A good meal and a good night's sleep, and he'll be on the mend in no time.”

“Could use that meal now, not gonna lie,” Sam said. “It was a hell of a trip home.”

“What happened?” Steve asked Rhodey.

“I was-” Sam started, and stopped when Steve put a hand up.

“Not talking to you right now,” Steve said, his tone dangerous. Sam just grinned, leaning back against the wall so that Bruce could finish swabbing out the cut on his side. Tony, hiding a smile of his own, went back to work on fixing Sam's armor.

Rhodey, used to Steve's moods, even if he was too good a soldier to ever question them, shook his head. “We're not sure. He got ambushed on the road home. Managed to hold onto the information he was carrying, and his goods, but it was a near thing. If he'd been any further from the main gates of the city, it's likely we would've lost him.”

“They underestimate my speed,” Sam said to Bruce. “Also, Redwing's speed. He got off completely untouched.”

“Having seen your armor,” Bruce said, his eyes tipping up. “I'm surprised you made it.”

“I make a fine suit of armor,” Tony said, flipping the breastplate over. “Still.” He let out a low whistle. “This was a hell of a blow. Mace or-”

Sam was already shaking his head. “No weapon I could see. I couldn't see much. He came out of the trees, fast, and he was wearing a heavy cloak and a-” He held a hand over his face. “A helmet, or a mask, it was hard to see. It was dark. But there was something over his mouth, over the lower part of his face.” He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the edge of the workbench. “I'll admit it, he came in so fast and so hard that I was not trying to get a look at his face, I was just trying to keep a knife out of my throat.” He tipped his head back, showing off a very thin, very long cut from just under one ear down to the hollow of his throat. “It was a close thing.”

Tony held up the breastplate, swinging it so that the light played off of the metal. Everyone could see the fold in it, where the impact had creased it. “This wasn't done with a knife.”

“No,” Sam agreed. “It was done with a bare hand. Or, I don't know, I saw metal, so a hand in armor. But I didn't see a weapon.” He shrugged. “Just the cloak, and armor. And...” He eyes narrowed. “A flash of brown hair.”

Steve's eyes squeezed shut. “Red star on the arm?”

“The Winter Soldier?” Tony asked, even as he tossed the breastplate onto the anvil. “C'mon, Steve, that's a tale told by soldiers on the front lines to scare the new ones.” He snorted. “Like the Iron Man.”

Rhodey gave him a look out of the corner of his eyes, and Tony ignored him. He'd had enough practice at that, at least.

“I didn't see a star,” Sam said. He winced as Bruce dabbed at his throat. “But don't know if it was there, and I just couldn't see it.” He took a deep breath. “He was scary fast and scary strong. That's all I know.”

“And he was within our borders,” Carol said, bringing every eye to her. She had her arms crossed over her chest, her hip braced on a bench. “Where he got ambushed. It's well within our borders.” She shook her head, her lips going to a thin line. “Nearly to the capital.”

“We've dealt with bandits before-” Rhodey started, and Carol cut him off.

“We have, but these aren't bandit raids. These aren't scattered outlaws, out for a handful of coin, or a something they can sell.” She pushed herself upright. “Four groups came through the gates in the hour before Sam did. All of them merchants, all of them unguarded. One was just an old woman and a young boy driving a farm cart.” Her fingers beat a rapid tattoo on her bicep. “Not a rich prize, but easy pickings.”

Her eyes canted up. “This isn't bandits. This is something different.”

Steve took a deep breath. “Any other scouts unaccounted for?”

Carol's head dipped to the side, her eyes narrowing. “Ours? No. Johnny and Jessica both made it home today. Sam was the last one back.”

“In my defense, I did have the farthest to go,” Sam said, grinning. 

“And you took a couple of unauthorized side trips,” Rhodey said.

“Not my fault you didn't anticipate how much I could get outta a handful of farmers and innkeepers along the road,” Sam shot back, unconcerned. He shifted, giving Bruce access to wrap his torso in bandages. “Traffic's on the road is way up. We have movement like nothing we've seen in years. People notice.”

“The trade delegations have been driving movement. From all of the kingdoms,” Tony said. He pried a leather strip loose and tossed it to the side. “If someone was looking to move unseen over the borders, now would be the time to do it.”

Steve huffed out a sigh, his mouth going tight. “Just what we need,” he muttered. 

“The negotiations are going to go well, and you know it,” Tony said, his hammer rolling over the surface of the metal in a rapid tattoo. He flipped the breastplate. “We just need to hold it together until we clear the court, then we can deal with this.” 

“Holding it together is what we're best at.” Steve's hand settled on the nape of Sam's neck. “You all right?”

Sam grinned at him. “Tell you what, Cap. Take me down to the kitchens and convince them to feed me, and I promise I won't die.”

“I'd appreciate that.” Steve's eyes went to Carol and Rhodey. “Take him off the duty roster for the next few days.”

“I'm fine,” Sam started, and Steve ignored him, tugging him to his feet, and bracing him with a hand on his back. Sam grumbled under his breath, but he leaned into Steve's hand.

“I think we can get by without you. For a few days,” Carol told him. She pushed herself upright. “I'm going to go see what Fury has dug up on our latest problem.” She looked to Rhodey. “You coming?”

“I'm going to go speak to the watch,” Rhodey said. “Make sure we have a few extra eyes on the road tonight.” 

“Double the watch,” Steve told him. To Carol, he added. “Tell Fury that I want a reporting of all border incidents for the last six months. And anything that struck him as unusual for a full year.” His eyes pinned Tony. “You, go to bed.”

“My orders are always worse than anyone else's,” Tony said to Bruce, who laughed.

“You're the only one who never follows them,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “Sam, come see me in the morning so I can check you out in better light.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Sam said. He leaned against Steve. “Let's go, my liege!”

“Don't push your luck, Sam,” Steve said, but there was nothing but affection in his voice. “Bruce? Something to eat? Since we're going to be waking the poor kitchen staff anyway?”

“I could do with a cup of tea, to be honest.” Bruce looked up from packing his bag. “Thank you, your majesty.”

Carol looked at Rhodey, one pale eyebrow arched. “I'll be right behind you,” Rhodey said, and Carol's eyes snapped towards Tony. She didn't say a word, though, just slipped her fingers along the line of his jaw and kissed his lips. It was a brief, affectionate gesture, and Rhodey grinned against her mouth.

“Don't kill him,” she said, striding for the door. “We need him.”

“Not that much,” Rhodey said. He leaned against the workbench, his arms crossed over his chest, until the were all gone, until even the echoes of their footsteps had faded. Then he stalked across the smithy and shut the door. “Don't even-”

“Here we go,” Tony said, smiling.

“Don't.” Rhodey's voice lacked humor, lacked even the anger that Tony had been expecting. It was just still and stern and quiet. “You nearly died.”

Tony's shoulders rose and fell in a slight, almost invisible shrug. “I got better.” And better at it. He kept that to himself. 

Rhodey scraped a hand over his face, his fingers lingering over his mouth and his jaw. “You are pushing your luck, Tony,” he said. “If his majesty finds out-”

“He won't.”

“He will if you keep rubbing his nose in it.” Rhodey's hand slammed down on the workbench with enough force to rattle Tony's tools. “Promise me,” he said, a bit quieter now. “Promise me you won't use the armor.”

Tony smiled at him, even as he shoved the stripped breastplate into the fire. “Armor's my business, Rhodey, and the reason why your people are still alive.” He grinned, and felt the heat on his skin, on his teeth. “Armor is what I do. And you're asking me to give it up?”

Rhodey shook his head. “Tony-”

“I won't, Rhodey, I know what it costs me. I won't use it,” he said. He reached for his hammer. “Unless I don't have a choice.”

“Your idea of 'no choice' is very different than most people's definition of the concept,” Rhodey said. He let out a sigh. “I don't know why bother trying to pound something approaching self-preservation into you.”

“It's a losing battle,” Tony said, rolling the handle of his hammer in his palm. “Your favorite sort.”

Rhodey was silent for a while, content, it seemed, to watch Tony work. And Tony was content to work, reworking the metal even as his brain buzzed with ways to make it better. To make it lighter, to make it stronger, to change the angle of the plate to deflect blows. Only half of his attention was on his work, and that was enough.

“The Iron Man,” Rhodey said, “served his purpose. But the war is over. And you're too valuable to risk, Tony, for this sort of a game.”

Tony paused, his hammer raised. His fingers tightened on the familiar wooden handle, but he kept going. “I haven't. Didn't I promise you? I stopped.” The hammer rang on his anvil, a brutal blow that carried a lot of frustration behind it. “But...”

“But?”

“I'm closer to him than anyone else,” he said, at last. “If anyone comes after him, Rhodey, and it comes down to it?” He glanced back at his friend. “There's nothing I wouldn't risk to keep him alive.”

Rhodey was silent, his face still. “What are you going to do when he gets married?” he asked at last, his mouth kicking up at the corners.

“Move in with you and Carol,” Tony said, immediately, and Rhodey laughed.

“No.”

“It's my house!”

“And you told us we could use it for as long as we'd like,” Rhodey said, smiling now. “As we are still residing there, I'm afraid there's no room for you.”

“Well, then, guess I'll sleep down here,” Tony said. “Isn't there something that you're supposed to be doing right now?”

“I've kept your secret,” Rhodey said. “I have lied, to my king, and to a friend, to hide your secrets, Tony.” He headed for the door. “If you don't see any point in protecting your own neck, how about you consider mine?”

He was gone before Tony could work up a response. Which was probably for the best. He wasn't really in the mood for this fight, not tonight. If he was being honest with himself, which he desperately tried to avoid, he wasn't in the mood for this fight ever.

He tossed his hammer aside and held up a hand, considering the rough skin of his palm, the callouses on the fingers, the raw tips. He took a deep breath, and pushed. The red light formed, slick and malleable, like liquid on his skin. It took a moment of concentration, of thought, and the armor gauntlet settled into existence, solid and hard.

Tony flexed his fingers, and the armor gleamed in the firelight. The metal moved in perfect harmony with his muscles, his bone and sinew. It was like a second skin, perfectly formed for his hand. Without a moment of pause, he thrust it into the fire, retrieving the red hot metal of the breastplate.

He barely registered anything more than a slight warmth as he got a grip on it, and went back to work.


	2. Chapter 2

He was burning.

He'd thought that would end, when he got out, when he dug himself out from under the sands. But the flame was embedded in his bones now, and he couldn't escape it. He burned, always, power like a star in the center of his chest, and if he kept it in, it would sear him from the inside out. But if he released it, it would swallow him whole.

So he burned. No matter what he chose, he burned.

“Tony?”

He couldn't breathe. There was sand in his mouth, in his throat. His mouth was wide open, gasping at what air he could get, and the sand was turning to liquid in his mouth, the raw scratch of sand melting into molten metal. He choked, gagged, and it was ignited, heat and power feeding on his breath, stealing the air from his lungs.

And he burned.

“Tony!”

The hand closed on his shoulder, and Tony jerked awake with a strangled scream. For an instant, there was just heat and the flickering light of flames, and dark forms that swam in his vision. Panic swelled in Tony's chest, but before it could overwhelm him, the voice came again, along with those familiar hands.

“Tony, it's all right. You're safe.”

Steve. 

His head fell forward onto Steve's shoulder. He was shaking, his whole body twitching, and Steve's arms tightened around him. “It's okay,” Steve said, his voice steady and calm. It was a lifeline, and Tony latched onto the sound, trying to focus on it. Trying to shut out anything other than the way that Steve's chest vibrated with the sound. One of Steve's hands sank into his hair, holding Tony's head steady against his shoulder. Tony concentrated on breathing. 

“It was just a bad dream,” Steve whispered, and Tony could've sworn that the words were brushed against his hair, as gentle as a kiss. “It's all right, Tony. It's-” His voice was strained. “Breathe.”

Tony was shaking, his skin damp with sweat, and he huddled against Steve's chest, desperately trying to steady himself. It took him far too long, but finally, he got his breathing under control. “I'm okay,” he managed, pushing himself away from Steve's chest. It took more effort than he would've liked to admit. “I'm-”

“The desert?” Steve asked, his voice quiet.

Tony slumped back against the bench. “It was-” He shoved a hand through his hair, trying to ignore how his fingers shook. His breath shuddered in his throat. He chuckled, a weak, wobbly sound. “It was-”

Steve's hand closed over his, and Tony jolted. He realized that his fingers were locked on the fabric of his shirt, clawing at the skin beneath. Steve didn't say a word, but his hand cradled Tony's, pinning it in place. Tony took a breath. “I'm fine,” he said, and Steve smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. “It's healed. I'm fine.”

“I know,” Steve agreed, his voice quiet. “And you were supposed to go to bed.”

“I know,” Tony said. His head fell forward. “I had-”

“I know,” Steve said. His thumb stroked over the side of Tony's hand, the gesture almost to intimate, and Tony pulled away. Steve leaned back with a faint sigh. “We've had this conversation so many times that 'I know' is all we both have to say,” he said, eyebrows arching. He reached out, fingers brushing at the sweat damp strands of hair that hung over Tony's forehead. “I think I should be worried about that.”

“We've made our fights so efficient we don't even have to have them any more,” Tony said, eyes closing. “He was still shaking, heat twisting into something much colder on his skin. “Most people would envy that.”

“I'd prefer we just not fight,” Steve pointed out.

“Good luck with that, your majesty.” Tony leaned back, bracing his arms on the edge of the workbench, his head falling back, his throat pulled tight. “What are you doing here?”

“You missed breakfast. And you weren't in your apartments. I thought you might have come down here early.” Steve's mouth tightened. “Little did I know you never left.”

Tony wasn't interested in this particular discussion. It wouldn't end well for him. “How's Sam?”

“Well enough to flirt with half the kitchen staff,” Steve said. He stood, heading across the smithy. 

“Only half?” Tony asked, his eyes closing. “I'd be concerned about that.” He heard, over the thud of his heartbeat, the sound of a cork being drawn, and the click of glass on metal as Steve filled a cup.

“It was late. Or early. He'll get to the other half today.” Footsteps, then a faint nudge, Steve's foot against his. Tony opened his eyes, and wasn't surprised to find Steve holding a cup out to him. He took it. “Plus, we can't all be you, having the charm to flirt with ten women simultaneously without any of them taking offense to it.” Steve shook his head. “Still have no idea how you accomplish that.”

Tony smiled into his cup. “I have talents of which you are still unaware,” he said. He glanced at the cup, turning it in the light. “This is shit. What was I doing this day?”

“Probably why it's still down here,” Steve said. “Your ego never lets the rest of us see less than your best work.”

“I have nothing but best work, and everything else is a lie.” Tony's mouth pursed as he stared at the cup. “I think I'll blame this one on Peter.”

“Rather unkind, don't you think?” Steve's eyes were hooded, his mouth a flat line as he watched Tony drink. Tony made a distinct effort to keep his hand from shaking, but it wasn't particularly successful. “You need to get some more sleep.”

Tony waved that off. “I have work to-”

“That wasn't a suggestion,” Steve said, crossing his arms over his chest. “It's not a negotiation. It is an order.”

Tony's eyebrows arched. “Planning on clubbing me over the head?”

“I'd prefer not.” Steve's arms fell to his sides. “I don't want you getting sick.”

Tony glared at him over the rim of his cup. “I am not going to get sick,” he said. “God above, Steve. I healed years ago.” He tapped a finger against his chest. “You need to stop wor-”

“That is never going to happen,” Steve said, a faint smile crossing his features. He took the cup from Tony and set it aside. “Let's go.”

“No,” Tony said, reaching for a shield that had been discarded on his workbench. “I can-”

“Tony-”

“Really, Steve, I'm fine, I need to-”

“Your hands are still shaking.” Steve's voice was soft, almost gentle. “What kind of work do you think you're going to do with those, Tony?”

Tony tightened his grip on the metal. “The kind that needs doing.” He shook his head. “The same as always.”

Steve's hand came down on top of his, gently pushing the shield to the workbench. “I order you to go to bed and get some rest,” he said, his eyes even with Tony's.

Tony's eyebrows arched up. “Really?” he asked, a grin breaking across his face. “I'm curious, my lord. How do you plan to make me sleep?”

“You can go willingly, like an adult,” Steve said, his jaw at an obstinate angle, “or I can carry you to bed like a petulant child.”

Tony's mouth fell open. For a moment, he just stared at Steve, weighing that. “Right,” he said, letting go of the shield. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I'm calling your bluff.”

Steve leaned in, almost nose to nose with Tony. “I don't bluff, Lord Stark.”

Tony resisted the urge to kiss his nose. It would not go over well. “Fine,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “Go ahead. Take me, my liege.” He grinned. “If you dare.”

Steve's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “Don't push me.”

Tony reached out with one finger, placed it in the center of Steve's chest, and pushed. He had barely made contact when Steve lunged, moving forward, one shoulder down as he grabbed Tony's arm and twisted them both around and up. Before Tony knew what the hell was happening, he found himself hanging over Steve's shoulder, looking down in stunned confusion at Steve's very fine ass.

“Well?” Steve asked, not even sounding like he was breathing hard. “Are you walking? Or am I carrying you?”

Tony shrugged, amused. “Apparently, you're carrying me,” he said, not particularly concerned.

“Fine,” Steve gritted out. And headed for the door.

Tony had a moment to realize that he was going to actually go through with it, and then they were outside, Steve striding across the courtyard, his shoulder digging awkwardly into Tony's stomach with every step. Tony started to laugh. “You're actually going to-”

“I don't bluff,” Steve said, and he sounded like he was talking through gritted teeth. 

“I see that,” Tony said. He nodded at a couple of serving girls, enjoying the look of pure shock on their faces. He waved, cheerful enough, at everyone they passed. “Hello, Counselor!” he called as Fury's heavy cloak fluttered past his field of vision.

“You have an appointment, your majesty,” Fury said. “Try not to be late.”

“I'll do my best,” Steve said, and he clamped an arm down on Tony's legs, pinning them against his chest. “I cannot believe you are forcing me to do this,” he said to Tony.

“I cannot believe you think I'm going to stop you, my liege,” Tony pointed out, amused.

“I would've thought you would be embarrassed-”

“First of all, your majesty over estimates my sense of shame,” Tony said, as they made it through the courtyard to the massive doors of the keep. “I threw up behind every bush in that courtyard by the time I was twenty, what makes you think this is any worse?” He blew a kiss to a passing chambermaid, who was blushing bright red and pretending she didn't see either of them. “Also, I am merely a dutiful servant of the crown, my liege, subject ever to the crown's edicts.”

“I should drop you on your ass right now,” Steve grumbled, mounting the stairs. He wasn't particularly gentle about it, and Tony grabbed hold of his shirt, hanging on for dear life.

“All I'm saying is that I am ever your most loyal and humble attendant,” Tony said, grinning. “You're the one who looks like a pervert.”

Steve came to an abrupt stop. “King Namor,” he said, and Tony clapped a hand over his mouth.

“King Steven.” There was a pause. “Is that Lord Stark?”

“Yes,” Steve said, his voice strangled.

“Ah. I thought I recognized his better side.” Namor passed by, his legs crossing Tony's field of vision. Tony tipped his head to the side. Namor was staring at him, his face expressionless.

Tony gave him a nod. “Your majesty,” he said, unconcerned about his current position. 

Namor gave him a look, but his mouth twitched up, for a split second. Then he was back to being unamused. “Good morning,” he said, walking past as if noting out of the ordinary was happening.

Steve was nearly running as he shoved his way into his rooms. “We could've avoided that,” Steve said, his words pained. 

“We could have, but I think you're far more embarrassed about the situation than I am,” Tony said, grinning. “Serves you right, your highness.”

“Tony, I swear-” Steve turned and Tony had a moment to realize that he was next to Steve's bed, and then he was being dropped gently onto the blankets. 

He hit the mattress and sprawled out, laughing. “I cannot believe you did that,” he said, clapping a hand over his eyes. “Steve, I cannot-”

“Neither can I,” Steve said. “Will you please rest?”

“I think at this point I have to.” Tony sat up, collapsed right back onto the bed, overcome with dizziness. “Okay, maybe not,” he admitted. Exhaustion swept over him, and he closed his eyes. “Fire's still going in the smithy.”

“I'll have Peter deal with it.”

Tony nodded. He considered taking off his boots. It seemed like too much work, but he was dirtying up Steve's bed as it was. He struggled to sit up. “I have to meet Reed this afternoon.”

“Where?” Steve pushed Tony back down and crouched down beside him. He pulled Tony's boots off, and maneuvered his legs onto the bed.

Tony struggled with his shirt, managing to get it off with Steve's help. “Main road,” he said, yawning. “There have been reports of damage that-”

“Let Reed handle it,” Steve said.

“You say that like he could,” Tony said. He flopped over, curling into Steve's pillows. He buried his face in the clean, fresh linen, inhaling deeply. It smelled like Steve, a comforting mix of soap and leather, spice and something almost sweet. Not flowers. Not something that cloying. Tony was never quite able to define it, but he knew it. “I can sleep for a few hours,” he said, and yawned. It was easier to sleep here, in Steve's bed. It was pathetic. He didn't care.

“Tony?” Steve's hand smoothed over his head. “Don't leave the city. Understood? I'll send workers out to meet with Reed. But I want you to stay here.”

“Mmmm,” Tony said, fumbling for the blankets. Steve dragged them over him. 

“Promise me, Tony.”

“Be fine,” Tony said, already half asleep.

“You shouldn't have done it, Tony. You shouldn't have gone after my shield. It's my fault you ended up in the desert at all-” He broke off. “Promise me you will obey, for once in your life, Anthony.”

Tony was fairly certain that he was still talking, but Tony was too tired to hear it any more. He yawned, let his eyes fall closed.

*

“You over reach yourself.”

Pepper didn't even look up from her ledgers. “I understand your perspective, your majesty, but we do not.” She glanced up, her eyes wide over a sweet smile. “You, meanwhile, have a surplus of salt and a deficit of wood.” She turned the page, her delicate fingers flicking against the paper. “Our forests are at your disposal, but we need to reach a more equitable agreement.”

Namor leaned back in his chair, his arms folded over his chest. His eyes were heavy lidded, and his mouth turned up just the smallest bit. “And if I consider the current agreement equitable?”

“Then you are, with all due respect, quite incorrect.” Pepper smiled, her head tipping to the side. “We would get better prices by witholding our goods and trading with those you trade with. Even with a middle man, the terms would be better.”

Phil bit the inside of his lip to keep from smiling at the look of utter consternation on the Atlantian king's face. Namor stared at Pepper, who stared back, her cheerful smile not wavering. Namor's head twisted in Steve's direction. Steve, who was seated comfortably at the head of the table, his cheek braced on one fist, held up a hand. “Do not look to me for help, my friend,” he said, smiling. “She has a better head for trade then I will ever have.”

“Then I should prefer to deal with you,” Namor said.

“The longer you ignore her, the worse it's going to be for you,” Steve pointed out. “She takes that personally.”

“It's never personal, your majesty,” Pepper said. Her teeth flashed in a wicked smile. “Only business.”

“Personal might be easier to handle,” Namor said, but he waved a hand, his lips twitching. “Proceed with your delusions. I find I am amused by them.”

Next to Phil, Fury's breath left him in a huff. When Phil glanced in his direction, he found the counselor smiling. Fury caught his eye. “The king does not have a way with women,” he said quietly, his mouth twisted in a wry smile.

Phil's shoulders rose in a faint shrug. “I suppose when you have a kingdom, charm is less important,” he replied, his lips barely moving. 

“Uh-huh.” Fury leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. “Find out what the boy wants, will you?”

Phil's head turned, catching sight of the page that was hovering just inside the door. With a quick nod, he slipped from his seat and crossed to the door. “Miles?”

Miles dipped his head towards the hall, and Phil followed him outside. “Sorry, sir,” Miles said, with an easy smile. “Captain Danvers sent me to fetch you.”

“Did she now?” Phil pulled the door closed behind him. “How bad?”

“Not that bad, sir.” Miles' head tipped towards the main doors. “Can you come?”

“Lead the way.”

Carol was leaning on the rampart, her arms folded on the stone as Phil approached. She didn't bother to straighten up, she just waited until he came up next to her. "We've got an issue,” she said, her pale hair caught in the wind.

Phil moved up next to her. “And what would that be?”

She angled her chin towards the courtyard. Phil followed the gesture. The central yard of the keep was full of activity, people and horses moving in all directions, a handful of carts and wheelbarrows cutting through the crowds. Voices rose and fell along with the sound of hooves and wheels on stone and packed dirt. It was chaos, and he was used to it.

His eyes narrowed. He leaned forward, staring at the massive old oak that held a central place in the courtyard. 

There was a man in the tree, barely visible from this angle, and Phil could only get a clear glimpse when the wind moved the leaves that shielded him. His body was tucked into the crook of one massive limb some twenty feet off the ground. He was still, a green cloak folded around him, his hood up over his head.

“Who is-”

“Took us a while to figure it out. One of the Lady Natasha's retainers,” Carol explained. “She didn't bring many into the city itself, most of her companions stayed outside the keep. Seemed prudent on her part, to not bring half an army in, so the fact that she brought this one? Attracted some attention.”

Phil remembered him now, the figure in the dark cloak that had ridden along right behind the Black Widow, hidden in the shadows of his cowl. The only distinguishable feature on the man that he'd been able to see was the massive, beautifully formed long bow slung across his back and the quiver of arrows that hung on his hip, even as he rode. “Is he armed?”

“Not that we can tell,” Carol said.

“What is he doing?”

Carol's fingers tapped slowly on the stone beneath her arms. "Drinking," she said at last.

Phil's eyes squeezed shut. "In a tree."

"So it would appear." She sounded far too amused, and he gave her a look. She returned it. "I didn't give him the alcohol. Or a boost," she pointed out. "Not my fault he's doing it. We're asking you what you want done about it."

Phil rubbed the bridge of his nose with stiff fingers. "Why... Are you asking me about this?"

She shrugged. "Seemed like the sort of thing that we should notify you about."

He looked at her. "Why me, specifically?"

She gave him a look, her eyebrows arching. "Because Hill would just shoot him out of the damn tree, and Counselor Fury would light the tree on fire." She pushed herself upright. "I sent for you, Phil, specifically, because his majesty is actively trying to avoid diplomatic incidents right now, and you are the one we use when that's the goal."

Phil stared down at the moron in the tree. "Violence and quick disposal of the body is looking to be a viable option right now," he mused.

Carol gave him a grin, punching her fist into her other hand. "Just say the word."

"Let's try something a little more subtle first."

"Killjoy," Carol said, still grinning.

"That is why you called for me. How long has he been up there?" Phil asked.

"Not sure. They noticed him just after midday." The look she sent in that direction was faintly admiring. "I'm surprised they noticed him at all. He doesn't move much."

"He doesn't move at all." Phil's eyes narrowed. "Which means, he's got the bottle, but he's not drinking from it. It's a prop."

"He's certainly not drunk, not as still and as quiet as he's being." She looked at him. "What do you want us to do?"

Phil considered that. "Get me an axe."

She grinned. "The King'll have your head if you chop down that tree."

"Yes, but hopefully, the moron in the tree doesn't know that." Phil gave her a faint smile and headed for the stairs.

He crossed the courtyard, not particularly in any rush, stopping here and there to speak a word to a passing merchant and listen to some gossip from the watch. When he finally reached the tree, he didn't even bother to look up. “You need to get out of our tree, please.”

"Wondered when you'd be down."

He had a low voice, low and amused. Phil leaned a shoulder against the tree, watching the people move in the courtyard. “I could say the same about you.” 

“I'm fine where I am, thank you.” 

Phil caught a ball that rolled free of a little girl's hands, and held it out to her. “Be careful,” he said, smiling. “Don't get in the way of the soldiers.”

“I won't. Thank you, Counselor Coulson!” She took it with a grin and bounced off, her black curly hair a halo around her head, her pale skirts swinging around her legs.

“Coulson. You're one of the King's advisers, then,” the man in the tree said.

“I assist Counselor Fury,” Phil agreed. He braced his back against the tree trunk. “You're Lady Natasha's guard.”

That won him a wry burst of laughter. “She needs no guard,” he said. “I'm a companion. A good pair of eyes. A decent enough shot. That's all.”

Phil arched one eyebrow. “But not one of her countrymen,” he said. In the silence that followed, he added, “There's hints of her mother tongue in her words. She does a good job of hiding it, but it's almost impossible to forget the language you were raised with.” He paused as a patrol of guards passed by, nodding to him in a respectful fashion. Phil returned the gesture with a smile. “You don't have it.”

“I'm a mercenary by trade,” the man agreed. “Her money spends as well as any one's.”

Phil's eyes narrowed. “Want to tell me what you're doing up there?”

“Watching.”

“Watching? Watching, what?” Phil asked.

“Her back.”

Phil considered that. “What are you watching for?”

There was a pause. “Trouble.”

Phil's lips kicked up in a half smile. “Are you planning on starting any?”

“I've been told that if I do, I'm not getting paid.” He sounded amused. “The Lady has intentions when it comes to your king. I didn't really understand that, until I saw him.” His laughter echoed down. “Now, I understand.”

Phil considered that. Considered what had been a lie in that conversation, and what had been the truth. Thought about what the man had told him that was veiled, and what could be taken at face value. “That's why you're up a tree? So that you'll have a good view?”

“That's the whole of it, my lord.”

He pushed himself upright. "Get down."

There was a second of a pause, and then the man landed next to him, his body folding into an easy crouch in impact. His hands hung loosely in front of him, the bottle dangling from one hand. He straightened up, his face unreadable, his mouth tucked up in a faint smirk.

Phil nodded. “I'll have Captain Danvers let you onto the guard walks at the top of the walls. Mind your manners, and if you cause any trouble, I'll make sure you end up so deep in the dungeons that never see daylight again, no matter who's paying your price.” He leaned in. “Do we understand each other?”

Oddly enough, the man grinned. “I think we do.”

Phil searched his face, and the man met his eyes without flinching. “Good. Your name?”

“Clint. But most people call me Hawkeye.” He gave Phil a bow that wasn't as mocking as it should have been.

Phil nodded. “If you see anything, you tell us. And I'll give you the run of the walls.” He arched his eyebrows. “Fair?”

Clint nodded. “Fair, my lord.”

Phil turned back towards the great hall. “Don't make me regret this, Hawkeye.”

“You probably will,” Clint called after him, and the damn bastard sounded like he was laughing. Phil decided to ignore that.

He was good at ignoring certain things.

*

"You're late."

Tony reined his horse in, fast enough that the bay mare skipped sideways, hooves rattling against the road. He patted her lightly on the neck. "You say this like I should be surprised by that piece of information," he said. "I'm not. I overslept and I'm aware I overslept." He slid down to the ground, his tool kit bumping against his back as he found his feet. "However, the company, I'm surprised by."

Sue Storm smiled at him from her perch on top of a nearby rock. "You shouldn't be," she said. "Some of us like to get outside of the city." Her fingers played through the air, tiny bubbles of magic floating in between them. She had a gentle, almost ethereal quality that she played for all it was worth, but anyone who knew her knew it was only a facade. Tony appreciated it, especially when her practical side kept Reed in check.

"Some of you are allowed to leave the city without an escort," Tony said. He rubbed the mare's nose and let her reins drop to the ground. Well trained, she started nosing around for a bite to eat amongst the trailing clover that bunched against the wall. "I wasn't aware that you were interested in road construction," he said to Jane, who was seated just next to Sue.

"I'm not,” Jane said. Her pants were dusty and her boots were covered in mud, but she smiled easily at him. 

“Neither am I,” Sue pointed out.

“I know why you're here,” Tony told her, and she laughed. “So if you're not here to watch Reed and I yell at each other about bridge safety, because that is why Sue is here,” he said to Jane, “to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

She nudged her overflowing bag with the heel of one foot. “Heading up to the monastery just past the next crossroads,” she said. “I've got repair work of my own to do, on the telescope there, then some study. I just came back to the keep for my data.”

“She was passing by and I convinced her to rest her feet and have something to eat with us,” Sue said, smiling. “She's got a ways to go before dark.”

Tony stared at her, then at the two horses wandering idly beside the river. Both of them had the Storm family crest on their saddles. "How did you get here?" he asked Jane.

"I walked," she said. Tony continued to stare at her, his face blank, and she grinned. "It's something poor people do. With their legs," she explained. "That allows them to get from place to place without the use of-"

"I know what walking is," Tony told her, trying to hold back a laugh. "Thank you. I'm not that-" He waved a hand. "That." 

“You really are,” Sue said.

“Thank you, really,” Tony told her. “And no, I'm not. I do walk.”

“From your bedchamber to the smithy,” Reed said, splashing through the water on the edge of the river. It was clear and likely cold, but he didn't seem to notice. It was at a low ebb, and running slowly enough to allow him to access the underside of the bridge's supporting arches. He waded through the water, his pants rolled up to his knees, his boots discarded on the banks. His hands were above his head, and extending from them, like ghostly appendages, long threads of magic extended his reach. He controlled the magical limbs as easily as he did his own, forming them into hands that could test the stones. 

Tony had seen him do it for years, and it was still a little bit creepy to him.

“I walk, I'm just smart enough to take a horse when there's a couple of miles of busy road involved,” Tony pointed out.

Jane shrugged. “I'll be fine.” She straightened up. “I should really be going, though, if I want to make the monastery before nightfall.”

“Wait a bit, and I'll take you,” Sue said. “My horse can carry the both of us, and you shouldn't be walking alone.”

“No, you shouldn't,” Tony said. 

“I should-”

“We might need your help,” Reed said, his voice absent. He braced a hand, a real one, on the stone support. “Tony.”

Tony headed down the bank. “This what we've been getting all those complaints about?” he asked. He kept his boots on, he preferred to have them wet than risk slicing his foot open on a rock. 

“Come see.”

Tony moved into the space beneath the arch, peering up at the shadowy underside of the stone. He squinted. “That does not look right at all,” he muttered. There was something wrong. He wasn't sure what it was, but the hair on his arms stood on end. 

“No,” Reed agreed. “It does not.” He leaned back. “Sue, can you get us some light?”

“I think I should be able to help with that.” Sue came down the bank carefully, the skirts of her long, pale blue dress thrown over one arm. One hand came up, and a bubble of magic formed around it, pale and nearly transparent. She tilted her wrist, until the rays of the afternoon sun reflected off of it, filling the space beneath the arch with light.

Tony stared up. The stones were criss-crossed with deep gouges and burned black, like someone had tried to damage several of them enough to weaken the arch “Yes, that is not a naturally occurring problem,” he said. His jaw set. “Dammit, we're going to have to close this down until we can get a team of masons to make real repairs.”

“Perhaps not.” Reed's magical extensions brushed at the stone. “The black appears to be soot or some sort of residue, we don't know how much damage is really-” One magical hand brushed at the black surface, and followed the trail of it into the dark recesses at the base of the arch.

Something moved.

Tony stumbled backwards, his feet kicking up water as a black mass slammed into Reed, knocking him off his feet. Reed crashed into the river, the black thing on top of him, forcing him under. 

It was a beast, a hulking thing that seemed to form even as it came out of the shadows. It was like a warped version of a dog, with huge jaws and spindly legs that carried its body forward. Claws and teeth were bared, even as it attacked Reed, jaws snapping on the air.

Sue's power hit it hard, lifting it off of Reed and sending it slamming hard into the stone of the bridge. The bubble of magic hit hard enough to send water flying in all directions, even as the beast collided with the bridge support. There was a sound of stone shifting, and bone shattering, and then the beast was sliding into the water.

It didn't get back up.

Tony, caught off guard and stunned, staggered forward, reaching for Reed's still body. He got a grip on Reed's shirt and heaved him out of the water. Sue was right beside him, grabbing hold and the two of them retreated, as fast as they could.

“What the HELL was that?” Tony asked, dragging Reed's limp body up the embankment and to the road. He was breathing hard, his heart pounding in his chest. One wet hand clutched at his chest, feeling the heat radiating from beneath his breast bone. He sucked in a breath, and another, as Sue fell to her knees beside Reed.

“I don't know,” she said, her voice shaking on the words. Her hands slid over Reed's face, his throat. “He's breathing,” she said, looking up. “I think he just hit his head. We should be able to-”

Jane screamed, and that was the only warning they got before the beast hit Sue from behind, sinking its teeth into her shoulder. She screamed, a howl of pain, and Tony swung his tool kit off of his back. The leather satchel hit the thing, knocking it back and away, and it rolled through the dust. Tony brought the bag up over his head and slammed it down with all the force he could muster. 

The thing let out a scream of agony, and went still.

Tony backed away, keeping a wary eye on the damn thing. “Sue?”

“She's alive,” Jane said. She was on her knees next to Sue, pressing her hands to the wound on Sue's shoulder. Blood oozed from between her fingers, blood and something darker, and a lot nastier.

Sue's mouth was moving, her good arm coming up, pushing Jane away. Her breath shuddered past her lips, and she jerked on the ground, her back arching. A bubble of magic formed around her shoulder, collapsing down until it was nearly flush with her arm. Her eyes closed, and Tony let out a curse. Sue might've slowed her own bleeding, but he didn't know how long it would last, or if that bite was poisonous. “We need to get her to Faiza,” he told Jane. “You can ride, can't you?” 

“Yes, but the horses-” Jane said, shaking her head. “They bolted, when that thing-”

“Not mine.” The mare was still standing there, her movements nervous, her head swinging from side to side. But she'd stayed put, her training more powerful than her panic. Tony caught her reins, smoothing a hand over her head. “Good girl. Good girl,” he crooned. “She can carry you both,” he said to Jane, heaving her up to her feet. “Mount up.”

“I can't leave you! Reed-”

A scratch brought his head around, and Tony watched, horrified, as the black mass shuddered, rising from the ground with the sound of bones shifting. And to Tony's confusion, there were two of them now, two things of almost equal size, with massive jaws and broad bodies. Both of them turned, the massive heads swinging in his direction. “We are done with this discussion,” Tony snapped. “I'll stay with Reed. Go get the guard.”

Jane mounted up, Tony's hand on the waist of her pants, half lifting her into the saddle. “Tony, they'll-”

Tony darted forward, scooping Sue up. He shoved her over the horse's back, into Jane's lap and Jane's arm went around her, pinning her in place. Sue twitched, but she didn't wake, and the magic around her shoulder didn't fail. Tony let out a breath, and grabbed his sword from the scabbard hanging from the saddle. "Take her!"

"But-"

Tony turned. Whatever these things were, they were gathering their forces, reforming, bodies rising from the river bank. "Jane, she's going to die if you don't! Go back to the keep and get help!”

Jane was shaking her head. "I can't-"

Tony didn't even let her finish the sentence. He just slapped the horse's flank, hard enough to make her bolt. Jane shrieked, but she had the reins in her hand, she had the reins and she had a solid grip on Sue, and Tony knew that horse. She would head straight home. She'd done it often enough when he was drunk enough to give her only the smallest hint of control.

"Tony!" Jane screamed, her head twisting around, and Tony pointed.

"Get help!" he yelled back. There was the faintest sound of claws on stone, and he spun, sword up, meeting the thing's leap with a blade to the throat. It staggered, its head whipping from side to side as it tried to find some way past Tony's sword, then charged him anyway. Tony fell back a step, and then another, stabbing whenever there was an opening, his sword cutting through flesh and into bone, but it wasn't enough. 

Even as he knocked the thing down, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Whatever these things were, they didn't stay dead for long. They were going to make another move, and he wasn't sure what he could do to stop them. At least not with a sword.

Time stretched, slowed down, and one opponent became two, became three. Tony braced himself, swinging at every attack, his arm aching. He wanted better ground, he wanted a better angle, but there was no way he could move Reed, nor could he leave him. So he fought, until his back and shoulders were burning, until his fingers were shaking on the hilt of his sword.

He waited, as long as he dared, praying she was far enough away, and still headed for the city, praying that Reed would stay down. One of the beasts lept, and he swung, and the sword slipped free of his fingers. It clattered across the stone, throwing up sparks as it spun across the road. Cursing, Tony fell back a step, for a second, gathering himself. He took a breath, and another, as the things began slinking forward, low to the stone and grass, leaving black trails where they passed. Claws scraped against the stone, and Tony closed his eyes.

The pain in his chest was like a flame caught beneath his breastbone, magic chewing him apart from the inside, and he bit down on a scream. 

The creature leaped, and Tony's hand came up, light curling in his palm. The explosion went two ways at once. The light flared out, a burst of heat and flame that caught the beast in the face, knocking it back and sending its lifeless body rolling over the road. And the metal rolled over his skin, forming the armor even as he moved, even as he rushed forward to meet the attack.

He hated it and he loved it. It hurt, it burned down to his bones, and the pain made him numb, made him stupid. But he was free, freer than he'd ever been, fast and strong and encased in armor so perfect it could've only come from his core. It was metal that moved with him, that supported him, that enhanced him, even as it protected him. There was no stiffness to the armor, no awkwardness, no loss of speed or flexibility or range of movement.

It was perfect. And he could feel it killing him.

The magic flared between his fingers, bursts that he could control with a flick of his wrist or a flex of his shoulders. Where a blade had failed to stop them, the armor did the job, the magic making short work of them.

Tony braced his feet and went to war.

*

“I have seen many castles in my time,” Thor said, his arms crossed over his chest. “Yours has a design like none I've ever seen.”

"We adapted. To long stretches of warfare and possible siege conditions," Steve explained. It was Thor who had suggested the walk the castle battlements, after they had finished their negotiations. Or rather, after Thor had gotten bored with the negotiations, and left Loki to discuss business with Fury and Pepper.

Steve wasn't displeased by the turn of events; he was starting to feel like there were things that needed to be done outside the castle walls.

Steve paused at the wall, just over the castle's main gate, and its drawbridge. He pointed off to the right. "Orchards, limited fields and grazing pastures within the city walls, for food supplies. Most of the city residents grow their own gardens, keep fowl or sheep, goats, pigs, and the occasional cow."

Thor nodded. "Stockpiles only last so long," he said, with a smile.

"Stockpiles are best if we can augment them with fresh food," Steve said. "Effective use of the land helps."

"And those?" Sif asked, pointing at the large houses to the left of the road.

"We have four noble families," Steve explained. "They all have lands and manor houses, of course, but the decision was made for each of them to build a house in the city walls, in case they were forced to seek refuge here."

"Ah, so that's where Queen Wanda and her courtiers are residing," Thor said.

"With Lady Van Dyne, yes," Steve said. He smiled. "Does make hosting larger gatherings easier." His eyes lingered on Tony's family house. His mother had supervised its building, and Tony still referred to it as her house. He didn't live there now, preferring his apartments in the southeast tower of the castle.

Steve preferred Tony staying in the damn castle, too, so he was fine with it.

He nodded down at the city. “The main square is-”

"You've got trouble."

Steve flinched to the side, just barely avoiding the body that came barreling along the wall, skidding past Thor and shooting down the stairs. The man was fast for his size, fast and determined, and he hit the ground running, his boots kicking up dirt. 

“Hey!” one of the guards yelled after him as he ran towards the stables. “How dare you-”

“There's wounded coming, get your people!” the man yelled back, disappearing into the stable without even a glance over his shoulder.

Steve's eyes narrowed, but when the guard wavered, confusion crossing his face, Steve snagged him by the arm. “Do it,” he snapped out. “Get Bruce, and sound the warnings.”

“Your majesty, he's not-”

“Do it,” Steve said, and the guard obeyed, taking off for the central keep.

“What is it?” Thor asked, still right at his back, and Steve shook his head. 

“I don't know.” He took off down the stairs, and wasn't surprised when Thor was right on his heels, one big hand steadying the massive hammer that hung at his hip.

He met Carol at the bottom of the stairs. “What's happening?” he asked.

She shook her head. “We don't know, your highness.”

“Rider!” the guard at the gate yelled, and Steve wheeled around.

The horse was coming in fast, too fast, beyond speed and into panic. Its hooves clattered across the drawbridge and into the courtyard before it tried to stop. Steve caught a glimpse of its rider, her face drawn and pale, and then the horse was rearing. 

"Jane!" Steve yelled as Sif walked up, ignoring the way the horse's hooves cut the air within inches of her head. She grabbed hold of the reins and brought the mare's head down. The muscles in her arms tensed as she brought the animal under control, but the soft smile on her face never wavered as she stroked a palm down the sweat damp length of the horse's neck.

Steve darted in behind her, horrified to realize what she was carrying was another person. “Jane? What happened?”

She looked down at him, her face white, her eyes huge and almost black. “She's-” She shifted. “Help me.”

Steve reached up, and Bruce was right there beside him, Thor, too, hands coming up to lift the woman from her grasp. “Lady Storm,” Bruce said, his face tight. “Jane, what happened-”

“Something- Something bit her, something, not-” Jane was panting, the words forced out with each breath. “It's magic, I think, it's-”

“It is,” Loki said, his voice cool. He crossed the courtyard, his golden staff clicking on the stone, Fury and Hill right on his heels. “And a virulent sort.”

“Can you help her?” Steve snapped.

“I've no talent for healing,” Loki said. One eyebrow arched. “And she contained it on her own.”

Bruce nodded. To the guard, he said, “Send Pietro down to the clinic,” he said. “If the wound is as bad as it looks, I'll need Faiza, and as quickly as possible.” To Steve, he explained, “She has a far greater talent for magic and poison.”

Thor's fingers pressed against the magical bubble that enclosed Sue's shoulder. “Impressive,” he said, his voice quiet.

“Hers is a family of magic users, and she's one of their strongest.” Steve reached up, pulling Jane down off the horse. “What happened, what-” He stared at the horse, still skittish, still trying to rear, even with Sif's firm grip. His stomach iced over. “Jane, that horse-”

She was pale, her breathing coming in rapid pants. "He's still-" She shoved a hand through her hair, and her fingers were red with blood. “Tony. And Reed. Still-”

The fear was all consuming, a red haze across his vision, a taste like bile in his throat. “Where?” Steve snapped. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man from the wall come out of the stables, already mounted on a horse, a bow and quiver thrown over his shoulder.

“The bridge. A few miles-” Her face crumbled, but she was still hanging on, still in control. “He sent me back, but those things are still-”

Steve turned, snapping out orders, and he could barely hear his own words, he didn't know what he was saying, but apparently, whatever it was, it was enough. The archer spurred his horse and was out the gate and across the bridge, and Steve didn't care. All he cared about was the response of his people, his own, fractured response.

“If it is magic,” Thor said, his voice breaking through, “then you will not be able to save them with a sword. Or a shield,” he added, as a page ran up, Steve's shield in his hand.

Steve shoved it onto his back. “That might be the case,” he gritted out, grabbing the reins that were handed to him, “but we'll sure as hell try.”

Jane turned on Thor, her face twisting in rage. “They're going to die, while you tell us we can't do anything about it!” she spat out. One bloodstained hand snapped out, grabbing the front of his breastplate. “So, help them!”

For an instant, Thor's face was blank, shock rolling across his features, his eyes going wide as the tiny woman grabbed him by the front of his armor and pulled. For an instant, Steve was afraid he was going to rear up and hit her, or knock her down, or just curse at her.

Instead, his face split in a wide grin. "You have much spirit, come, let us save your friends."

Loki's eyes slid shut. “Thor-”

Sif took the reins of a horse from one of the guards. “You will not win this battle, Loki,” she said, swinging herself into the saddle. “Best give up with some measure of grace.”

“That, he is not good at.” Thor looked at Steve. “On your orders, then.”

“We ride,” Steve managed. And prayed it would be enough, fast enough, soon enough. 

*

It took them only a matter of minutes to cover the distance, on horses bred for speed and stamina. For Steve, it was an eternity, of wondering, of waiting, of trying to brace himself for what they might find and hoping, at the same time, that he wouldn't have to weather a loss of that magnitude. 

Terror clawed at his throat the entire trip, and he rode faster than he could ever remember riding, Thor, Sif and Loki right on his heels. Behind them, a phalanx of guards tried to keep up, with Carol at the lead, and Bruce at the back.

Steve crested the hill and for a moment, all he saw was the man on the ground, and the one on the bridge, and neither of them was who he was looking for. And then Tony's familiar form came up the river bank, the flat of his sword on his shoulder and his hand reaching up to the archer, waiting on the bridge.

He was alive, and Steve started breathing again.

The horses pounded down the hill, and Tony reached the road at the same time they did. He looked up, setting the tip of his sword into the soil. The length of the blade was stained black, and it bit into the ground with a hiss. He was breathing hard, his face red and his skin and clothes splattered with black ichor, but he gave Steve a faint smile. "Bout time you got here," he said, and Steve was caught between the desire to kiss him and an equally strong desire to kill him. 

"Are you all right?" he bit out.

"Better than Reed," Tony said. He pushed himself upright, leaving the sword embedded in the ground. But he stood up, on his own power, and despite the tears and splatters across his clothing, he was alive, he was alive and whole and Steve could breathe. The guards were dismounting now, a clatter of armor and weapons all around them, and Steve slid off of his saddle. "Is there-"

"He's fine," the archer said. He was crouched next to Reed, the end of his bow braced on the ground, his hand gripping the wood. He looked up, eyes clear in his tense face. "Trying to come around now." He stood, getting out of Bruce's way.

“He's right,” Bruce said. He looked up at Tony. “What happened?”

“He got knocked down. I think he slammed his head off of a rock, and got a lungful of water,” Tony said. He tried to move past Steve, and Steve snagged his arm, holding him in place. It took effort for him to not hold on too hard, to not hurt him, not lift him off of his feet and shake him. He was almost certain that if Tony had tried to pull away, he would have. But Tony stilled, his body almost touching Steve's, and after a moment, he leaned against Steve's hand.

The contact was comfort, and Steve clung to it.

“No bite?” Bruce asked, as Reed groaned. “Slowly, you're fine,” Bruce told him.

“I beg to differ,” Reed muttered, but his eyes opened. “What- Was that thing?”

Loki flicked at a fractured limb with the end of his staff. His upper lip curled back from his teeth. "Hydra spawn," he said, his voice cool. "Nasty pieces of work."

"They did not go down easily," Tony said. Steve's fingers tightened, and Tony's hand came up to cover his. His hand was shaking, his breath still coming faster than Steve would like.

“Nor should they.” Loki's eyes flicked up, and for an instant, the green seemed to shift to something paler, something colder. Then it was gone. “Hydra. Cut off one head, two more rise to take their place.”

“Know what works?” the archer said, leaning on his bow. “Arrow through the eye socket.” His teeth flashed. “That works real nice.”

“Yes.” Loki reached out with one finger and flicked it against the arrow shaft that was still embedded in the remains. The contact sparked green, and the arrow flared with a purplish hue. Loki's head tipped in the archer's direction. “Especially if the arrows been enchanted to deal with Hydra tricks.”

The archer shrugged. “Isn't that lucky.” His eyes were hooded, his expression unreadable.

“Lucky,” Loki repeated, with a faint smile. 

Thor was peering over his shoulder. “These, I have dealt with before, and you are not the only one with a weapon with such enchantments,” he said, grinning. He pulled his hammer from his belt, spinning it easily in his hand. “Sad I am that I missed the fight.”

“They came from under the bridge,” Tony said. “West bank.”

Thor nodded. “Sif? Care to come see if the nest is empty?”

Her grin was just as wide. “Lead on, my lord.” She drew her sword.

“You are both going to get yourselves killed,” Loki said, his face pained.

“Then best you come with us, brother, to prevent such a tragedy,” Thor said, wrapping an arm around Loki's shoulders. Ignoring the other man's protests, Thor dragged him towards the bridge and down the river bank. 

Rhodey gave Steve a questioning look, and Steve nodded. “Be careful,” he said, and he knew that he should go, that he should be the one going down there, but it was more than he could manage right now. All of it was more than he could manage.

“Yes, your majesty.” Rhodey and half a dozen of the guard followed their lead, leaving a few behind to watch the road, and Steve. Steve knew he was doing it, and he didn't much care. 

“I've never seen anyone shoot like that,” Tony said, to the archer, who was retrieving his arrows. 

The archer grinned at him, a twitch of a smirk. “And you never will again, my lord.” He straightened up, hooking the bow over his shoulder.

“You're Lady Natasha's man, aren't you?” Steve asked. 

The archer bowed. “Hawkeye, at your service, your majesty.”

“At mine, actually,” Tony said. He managed a smile. “I won't lie. Was glad to see you come over the top of that hill.”

Hawkeye grinned back. “I was impressed you were still standing,” he said. “Usually a sword doesn't do much against these things.”

“You've encountered them before?” Steve asked him. Hawkeye nodded, and Steve took a deep breath. “Good. Stay here with him. I'm going to go join Thor and the others.”

“I can-” Tony started, and Steve wheeled on him.

“You,” he said, his voice very soft, very controlled, “will stay right here.” He leaned in. “Do you understand?” Tony's mouth opened, and Steve held up a hand. “Do not.”

Tony arched an eyebrow, and sank down to sit on top of the stone wall that ran next to the road. “As my liege commands,” he said.

“Will miracles never cease,” Steve said, shifting his shield off of his back. To Hawkeye, he said, “If anything moves, shoot it.”

Hawkeye considered that. “Does that include him?” he asked, hooking a thumb in Tony's direction.

“Try to make it non-fatal,” Steve told him.

“At this point, I'm going to ask you to make it fatal,” Tony added.

“You're not getting off that easy.”

*

"What were you THINKING?"

Tony gritted his teeth, biting back the very real impulse to say something that would get him into even more trouble than he was already in. Instead, he took a long, deep breath through his nose, waiting for the impulse to pass. Finally, he said, "I was thinking that we had one horse, and four people, and two of them were helpless. I was thinking that sending Jane and Sue for help was better than trying to deal with it alone.” 

Which honestly was not that good of a reply either, but it was a hell of a lot better than his initial impulse. So much better.

Judging by the way that Steve looked at him, his face absolutely furious, he didn't agree. Tony stared him down, unconcerned by the way that Steve's hands were bunched into fists. “I sent for help,” Tony snapped. “You'd think I'd get a bit of credit for that.”

“You should never have left the keep, let alone the city!” Steve snapped. “With Sam getting attacked last night, you had to know-”

“You had to know I wasn't going to stay here, we've been getting complaints about that bridge for weeks now! And I-”

"You could've been killed," Steve gritted out.

"And if I wasn't there, Reed and Sue might have been. Not to mention Jane. Steve, I'm fine," Tony said, spreading his arms wide. "Other than a very impressive bruise on my ass, I'm completely fine."

Steve's hand closed on the side of his face, his touch gentle despite the way the muscles in his arms were bunched. Sighing, Tony let Steve turn his face into the light. "You're bleeding," Steve said, his thumb warm on the plane of Tony's cheek.

Tony's eyes rolled back. "What, a tiny scratch? Steve, really." He reached up, wrapping his fingers around Steve's wrist. "I'm fine."

Steve's hand fell away, and Tony had a moment to mourn the loss. "Sit," Steve ordered. He turned and stalked back up the length of the hall to the doors.

"Ah, there's the battlefield voice," Tony said, looking around. The staff had been in the process of resetting the Great Hall for the evening meal when the two of them had entered, already yelling at each other. Not surprisingly, the servants had scattered as quickly as possible, leaving the room mostly empty. 

He took a seat on the throne. "This is nice," he said, leaning back. "I like this." He tossed a leg over one arm and leaned his elbow on the other, draping himself comfortably across the seat. "Yes, this is acceptable."

Steve glanced over his shoulder, a reluctant smile spreading over his features. "Suits you," was all he said. "Want the job?"

Tony laughed. "Laziest coup in history," he said. Tony let his eyes close. "Don't think I'd find it comfortable, long term."

"No, you wouldn't, because you can't stand any sort of restriction being placed on you,” Steve said. He opened the door and said something to someone outside, and Tony stopped paying attention.

It was hard to breathe. He was used to the sensation, the searing heat against his breastbone as the damn thing tried to sear the flesh from his bones. He sucked in a breath, and another, desperately trying to control the pain. One hand pressed hard against his chest, and he tried to convince himself that the skin was not hot beneath his fingers.

For an instant, it wasn't his fingers, pressing there against his skin, it was Yinsin's, his voice soft and anxious as he tried to stem the flow of blood, the flow of magic, trying to keep Tony whole even as they both sank beneath the wind-swept sand. Tony pressed hard, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, blood and magic leaking out from between his fingers, no matter how hard he pressed, no matter how desperately he tried to stop it. Blood soaked his hands, blood that went solid as it reached air, and the metal was swallowing him again.

“Tony?”

Tony's head snapped up, his whole body shuddering as he sucked in a breath. Steve was crouched in front of him, his face pale, his eyes worried. “Oh, God,” Tony managed, his head falling back. “No, not this again, I can't-”

“You're shaking like a leaf,” Steve said. He set a basin of water on the floor next to the throne, his hands reaching up, smoothing over Tony's shoulders, his arms. His fingers cupped Tony's neck, supporting his head, his thumbs stroking along the lines of Tony's jaw. Tony gritted his teeth, fighting against the desperate urge to crawl into Steve's arms and never leave the comfort of that embrace.

“Just a bad memory,” Tony said. He didn't pull away from Steve's hands. He wasn't sure if he would be able to, even if he wanted to. “And battle weariness, I suppose.”

Steve's eyes were worried, but he nodded. “Jane is fine,” he said, his fingers still rubbing idly at Tony's skin. “And so is Reed.” He smiled. “Sue has woken up. She and Faiza are treating the bite, but there's no doubt; she'll recover fully.” 

Tony's eyes closed. “Oh, thank God,” he whispered, and he clamped an hand over his eyes, a sob catching in his throat. “Thank God. Thank God.”

Steve's arms slid around him, and Tony fell into his embrace, burying his face in Steve's shoulder. Tony's eyes burned, and he let out a watery laugh. “I didn't-” The words died, and Steve's arms tightened around him.

“You saved them,” he said, his voice quiet. His fingers slid into Tony's hair, holding him close. “Tell me you're all right.”

Tony nodded, pressing closer. “I'm all right,” he whispered. And it was true. He wasn't sure why but the heat beneath his breastbone was fading now, like Steve was leeching it from his body. Maybe he was, and Tony shouldn't let him. But he couldn't seem to break away.

He felt Steve nod, his head right next to Tony's. And then he was pulling away. He was on his knees in front of Tony, and now he rocked back to rest on his heels. Tony tried not to think about it, about Steve on his knees in front of him, while he was sitting on the damn throne.

Celibacy hadn't done anything to stifle his imagination.

Tony pushed himself up, and Steve was on his feet before Tony could even straighten up. “Tony-”

“I'm fine,” Tony said, and he needed to leave, he needed to get out, before he did something horrible, like kiss Steve. Or, you know, sink down to his own knees in front of him.

“We need to talk about this-”

“No,” Tony snapped, his voice too loud, too harsh. “No, we don't. It's fine. I'm fine, everyone's fine, and we don't need to TALK about it.”

Steve's head snapped back, hurt flickering over his features for a second. And then it was gone, that regal mask slipping into place. “Fine,” he said. He reached down, collecting the basin. “Go see Bruce, he'll check you over.”

“I don't-”

“This isn't a negotiation,” Steve said, his tone harsh. “I asked you not to leave the city. You went anyway.” He met Tony's eyes. “Now, it's an order. You don't leave the city.”

Tony let out a laugh. “Steve, I'm not going to-”

“No, you're not. I tried asking you. And you did what you wanted to do, anyway.” Steve shook his head. “You always do what you want to do. My word is law, except where you are concerned.”

“I did what I had to do,” Tony protested. “Your consort I might be, but I have responsibilities, too, I have work to do, and you can-”

“You should never have gone after my shield.”

Tony fell silent, his lips going flat and tight. As old as the argument was, it stung like a wound that had never properly healed. It was an old war wound that cut each of them differently, but laid them both low every time. He braced himself against the memories. “They took it from you.”

“It was broken. It was a piece of metal,” Steve said, the words soft and filled with bitterness. “I left it behind. I chose my people.” He glanced up, his brows pulled down, his jaw working. “It was broken, and you were whole, and that is the way I would've had it stay.”

Swallowing hurt, and he did it anyway, ignoring the way his throat ached, the way his chest ached with each breath. “We're both mended.”

“It is a piece of metal. You are worth more. Which is why I told you to leave it alone, to stay where you were safe, and you didn't listen, you never listen!” The words were sharp with resignation, with frustration. “I'm done talking to you. Now, I've talked to the guard. You're confined to the city. By royal decree.”

Tony stared at him, his stomach dropping out. “Is this a punishment?” he asked. He was proud of himself; his voice didn't even shake.

“No, this is me doing what you won't,” Steve said. “Protecting you.”

“By making me a prisoner?” Tony asked. He took a deep breath. “For how long?”

“Until this is over.”

“Until what is over?” Tony spread his hands. “The negotiations? The attacks? When do you consider it over, and what do you consider 'it'?”

Steve wheeled around, his face in Tony's, his expression furious. “You didn't want to have this discussion,” he said, his voice icy calm, and so soft that it was nearly inaudible. “So we're not. Now, you will just, for once in your life, you will just damn well obey!”

Tony wanted to punch him. Instead, he took a step back, and dipped into a deep, courtly bow. “As my king desires,” he said. He straightened up, and the agony in Steve's eyes gave him a sick sort of a thrill. “Am I dismissed, my liege?”

Steve let out a heavy breath, the tension in his body collapsing all at once. His shoulders dipped, his hands flexed. “Tony-”

Tony didn't say another word. He just got out.

*

“Was it-”

“No.” Clint stopped just inside the door. “It wasn't.” He slipped his quiver from his shoulder. “We have a problem.”

Natasha gave him a a faint smile. “We have many problems, would you care to narrow that down a bit?”

Clint smiled, almost against his will. “Hydra spawn.”

“We were expecting that,” she said. “I take it the arrows worked.”

“I'm here, aren't I?” 

Natasha's eyebrows arched. “Then what is the problem?”

He paused, his mouth getting tight. “What do you know about the Iron Man?”

That caught her off guard, at least enough to startle a blink out of her. “The Iron Man?” She took a seat at the small desk, one finger just brushing her lips. “There's little intelligence on him.”

“I was lead to believe that he was a myth,” Clint said. He leaned against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. “I'd heard that he was the ghost of the dead prince, risen from the grave to protect the country and the king.”

“Oh, he's real enough.” Natasha's eyes narrowed. “Ghosts, those are our purview. This land, they deal with magic, but it's a more solid sort.” She shook her head. “No, he's real, and he's no ghost. I saw him once, on the battlefield.” She looked up. “I didn't believe in him, to be honest, until I saw him.”

“Yeah, well, I have seen him, and I'm still not convinced he's real.”

Natasha's eyes closed. “You're sure?”

Clint gave a low laugh. “I'm not sure of anything anymore. I saw something. A man in gold and red armor, moving in a way I've never seen any man move.” He stopped, considering. “He was there, and then by the time I cleared the next bend, he was gone.”

Natasha nodded. “No one else saw him?”

“Maybe Stark did. But I didn't ask him about it, and he didn't bring it up.”

Her eyelashes dipped. “So he doesn't know you saw him.”

“I doubt anyone else could've,” he said. His eyes had certain advantages.

She stood, letting her skirts fall around her legs with a flick of her hands. “Interesting. The consort might have greater depth than we knew.”

He watched her, knowing better than to ask about what she was planning. “Am I coming to dinner?” he asked, instead.

“Why don't you head down to the tavern instead?” she suggested. “And see if you can't find out a bit more information.”

“On Iron Man?” Clint asked. “Or Stark?”

She flipped him a purse. He caught it in one hand. “Whatever rumors that happen to cross the bar.”

He weighed the coins. “I take it I'm encouraging a few more to come to light?”

“Everyone's more happy to talk when they're drinking.” 

“That's true.” He pushed himself away from the wall. “And you?”

“I think it's time I tried to get to know his majesty a bit better. Don't you?”

*

“May I join you?”

Steve paused, his feet falling still. “Of course,” he said, more out of habit than any desire for company.

Judging by the faint smile Natasha gave him, his reluctance was obvious. He took a deep breath. “I'm sorry,” he said. “It's been a very long day, and I'm not accustomed to quite this much-” His head tipped to the side as he tried to find the right word.

“Attention?” she asked, her eyebrows arching.

Steve smiled. “That's a good way of putting it.” She fell into step beside him, her skirts swirling around her ankles. The fabric moved in a way that he couldn't quite understand, and then he realized that the skirt was slit up the sides, giving her the freedom to move. The dress, and the leggings beneath it, were black, but the underskirt was red, flickers of the color appearing with every step.

“I don't like being confined,” she said, and Steve realized he'd been staring.

“I'm sorry-” he began, and she waved him off, her lips curling up.

“I know that my mode of dress is unconventional.” She paused. “Does it bother you?”

“No,” Steve said. “Seems practical to me.” He gave her a smile. “I don't think it's my place to tell anyone how to dress. We all have our job to do, and our clothing should assist in that, not make it harder.” He paused, head ducking down. “I've had my share of those who think I don't dress properly, either.”

Natasha nodded, her bright eyes angling in his direction. They caught the light from the lamps, sparkling in the darkness. “You do lack a certain...”

“Regalness?” Steve filled in, making her laugh. “Simple always suited me best.”

“Let's just say your clothes are regal, because you wear them, rather than you being regal because of your clothes,” Natasha said. One hand came up, tucking a copper curl behind her ear. 

“Very diplomatic of you, my lady,” Steve said, grinning.

“Thank you,” she said, her nose in the air. “I try.” The smile she gave him was soft and easy. “You may call me Natasha, if you wish.”

“I'm honored. And I'm Steve, if it pleases you.”

“I find it does.” She looked out over the walls, towards the rolling fields. “You do this every night, don't you?”

“Yes,” Steve said. It wasn't a secret. He made it a point to be seen, his shield on his back, greeting the guards on watch. If he was home, he walked the walls, every night. “I've done it since I was small.”

“Why?” she asked.

He opened his mouth, about to say something to put her off, to change the subject, but out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the look on her face. “You actually want to know, don't you?” he asked. He paused at a set of stone steps leading over the ramparts, and offered her his arm.

She took it, more to be polite than out of any need, he suspected. “Yes,” she said, her feet light on the uneven stone. “Why else would I ask?”

He smiled. “Some think it prudent to seem interested,” he said, “even if they're not.” They left the stairs, back on the flat expanse of the walk. Natasha didn't let go of his arm. He didn't shake her off.

“I haven't the time or the energy to fake enthusiasm,” she said. She looked at him, her head tipped to the side. “So? Why do you do this?”

“Because it's important,” he said, simply. “Because I have a duty to them, to everyone who lives within these walls. Because they need to know that I am here, for whatever it's worth. I need to be visible, to be seen.”

“To what end?”

“They are my people,” Steve said. “But I am their king. I belong to them. I owe them this much, at least.”

“How odd,” she said, her tone contemplative.

“How so?”

“Most rulers believe their people owe them, not the other way around.” Her eyes came up, a faint smile creasing her cheeks. “But you lead from the front.”

“When I can,” Steve said. “War will do that to you.”

“Yes, it will.”

There was something in her words, in her tone, that made it clear that the rumors were true. “You fought, didn't you?” Steve asked.

Her eyelashes swept down, veiling her eyes. “That is a very forward question, isn't it?” she asked, her red lips curling up.

“I meant no offense-” Steve started, but Natasha was already waving him off. 

“I am not offended.” Her smile grew. “Just a bit surprised. You're so proper that I didn't expect it.”

“Proper's a word for it, I can think of another, less polite one,” Steve said, wry, and she laughed.

“Proper seems just right,” she said. “And in answer to your question, yes. I did fight. Often, and well.” Her face tipped in his direction, a pale, gleaming oval in the moonlight. He couldn't read her expression, or her eyes. “As did you.”

Steve nodded. “Yes. I did.”

“Often, and well.”

“Often, yes.” He gave her a tight smile. “I don't consider it well.”

“Then you are either falsely modest, or a fool,” she said, and she sounded amused. 

Steve rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. “Maybe,” he admitted. “Or maybe I don't consider any of the fighting we did good, in any sense of the word.”

“There is the ability to do well, with circumstances beyond your control,” she pointed out. “To deal with a bad situation in the best way that is possible.”

“And second guess your choices later,” he said. They walked for a time in silence, the cool night air crisp against his skin. He glanced at Natasha. “Do you need a cloak?”

“I'm used to weather much colder than this,” she said. But she shifted a bit closer to him, and he let her.

They walked the walls in silence for a while, Steve watching the ground below them with each step, Natasha looking up towards the sky. “Why are you here?” Steve asked, his voice quiet.

“I enjoy the night air?”

He smiled. “No. Why did you come?” he asked, looking at her. “You've made no effort to enter into negotiations with anyone. You've barely spoken to the other delegations. You came, and I do not know why.”

She stopped, her chin coming up, and she was lovely and pale and almost ethereal in the moonlight. “You think we will start this war again,” she said, her voice quiet. Her eyes were unreadable, but her mouth was a flat line.

Steve faced her head on. “Your rulers have, before,” he said, not accusing, not attacking. Just a statement of fact.

“We lost so much,” she said, so soft and so filled with grief that he shivered, an icy chill rolling over his skin. “Far more than you will ever know. That war destroyed us. Our people, our lands, it laid waste to everything.” For the first time, he could make out something like an accent in her words, a slight flex to her words that hadn't been there a few minutes ago. Her control was slipping, and he stilled in the face of it. 

Her lips were red on the words. “We lost everything. Everything.” Her eyes closed, a sweep of golden red lashes against pale cheeks. “If this war begins again, it will not be our choosing.” She swept a hand through the air. “We will meet you, should you make that necessary, but another war will not be of our choosing.”

The words hung in the cold night air, and Steve waited, waited to see if she had anything further to say, anything to add, but she was still now, two pink spots high on her cheeks, from the cold or the emotion. “I lost everything, too,” he said at last. His smile was slight and sad. “Not as much as your nation. But everything I had, I lost.”

Her head tipped to the side. “And in the process, you gained a crown.”

He shook his head. “I lost more than I gained.” And what he'd gained, he'd never wanted. But no one believed that. He'd stopped trying to make anyone believe.

Her breath swirled from her lips like smoke. “The prince fell, didn't he?”

“Yes.” He tried not to think of it, of Bucky's face, more confused than afraid, as his fingers had slipped through Steve's, as he'd fallen into the void. He'd gone without a sound, and that silence haunted Steve, a strange echoing nothing that was somehow worse than a scream.

He looked at Natasha. “He fell.”

“They say it was no accident, in my homeland.”

He knew. He'd heard the rumors. He'd had them thrown in his face often enough. They still hurt, despite that. The words still found the chinks in his armor, slashing deep. Mostly because it reminded him of that long buried grief. “People say a lot of things.” He managed a tight smile. “Like that you killed your husband.”

Her smile was wicked. “That rumor,” she said, “I started. It makes things much easier, don't you think?”

“Depends on what things you're talking about,” Steve mused. 

“People don't cross you, if they think you are ruthless and cruel and power mad,” she said, with a faint laugh. “They might seek to bring you down, or use you, or manipulate you, but at least they do not underestimate you.” 

Steve considered her. “Are you?”

“Ruthless? Mad? Cruel?” Natasha considered that. “If I am, it is only because that is what they want me to be.” 

Steve stopped, turning to face her. “I don't let others determine who I will be,” he said. 

Her eyebrows arched. “Don't you?” she asked. “So it was your idea to take the throne. To lose your brother in such a way.” He opened his mouth, and she cut him off. “We are all subject to the whims of others, and of fate. And fate can be cruel.”

“I'm more concerned about the cruelty of humanity.”

She smiled, just a little. “You loved him, didn't you?”

He looked down, at the city, and the kingdom beyond it. “The only reason I do this is because I owe him. I owe all of them.”

“All of them?”

He turned back to her. “The dead.”

She stepped forward, her hand coming to rest on his chest, fingers barely brushing against the cloth. “The dead are dead,” she said. “I prefer to honor the living.” Her body shifted closer, and Steve's breath died in his throat. Natasha smiled, sweet and sly all at once. “Don't you agree?”

Steve covered her hand with his when it threatened to slip downwards. He pinned it against his stomach, his face heating. “I think-” he started, and had to stop to clear his throat. “I mean, I think I-”

“There you are.”

Steve jerked backwards as Tony came up the steps. He was unsteady, almost wobbling on his feet, and when he got close enough, he seemed to collapse, falling straight into Steve's arms. Steve caught him, and Natasha retreated a step, giving them space. Tony grinned up at Steve, his face flushed, his eyes heavy lidded. “Your majesty,” he said, the syllables slurring into something nearly incoherent and yet still seductive. Steve ignored the arousal that curled low in his stomach, hot and tempting.

“What have you been drinking?” he asked Tony, trying for disapproval, but the words came out amused.

“No idea,” Tony said, throwing an arm over Steve's shoulder and slumping into his body. His cheek rubbed against Steve's shoulder, and he yawned. “Somethin' Thor's people brought. Delicious.”

Natasha hid a smile behind one hand. “Asgardian mead is very dangerous,” she said to Steve. “And quite delicious.”

Tony's head rolled in her direction, and he blinked, his lips parted. “My lady,” he managed, trying to straighten up, and failing. Steve wrapped his arms around Tony, supporting his weight by pinning Tony against him.

Natasha nodded at him. “Best you put your consort to bed,” she said to Steve. 

“I think that's probably for the best,” Steve said, and he wasn't surprised to find that he was near the door that lead to his quarters. “Thank you for your company.”

“I enjoyed the walk,” she said. She paused. “I will speak to your council tomorrow about the trade agreements.”

“Thank you,” Steve said, and Tony was laughing into his shirt. He shifted, wrapping an arm around Tony's waist and dragging him back to his feet. “Let's get you to bed,” he told to Tony, who grinned up at him in a manner that could only be described as filthy.

“Oh, let's,” Tony purred, and Steve dragged him for the door before he could embarrass them both.

A few minutes later, he was lowering Tony onto the edge of his bed, and Tony flopped over onto his back. “Your bed is the best,” he said, his eyes sliding closed.

Steve picked up a pillow and slammed it, one handed, down on Tony's face. “You damn fool,” he said, but he was grinning, more from relief than humor. Dinner had been a nightmare, with Tony studiously ignoring him, acknowledging Steve only when necessary or politically prudent. 

Tony didn't move, a tumbled sprawl of limbs, his shirt tangled around his chest, a strip of golden tan skin showing above the waistband of his pants. “How unkind,” he said, his voice muffled by the pillow, still resting on his face. He raised a leg, bracing one bare foot on Steve's bed, and the fabric of his pants twisted up at his waist.

Steve took a moment to appreciate the visual of Tony, the easy, relaxed posture, the flashes of skin and flex of muscles. “Drunkard,” he laughed.

“I was bored,” Tony said, pushing the pillow away from his face with one languid hand. “Too many parties and you haven't been paying enough attention to me.” He smirked up at Steve, even as he tucked the pillow beneath his head. “What else do I have to do but drink?”

Steve braced a hand on the bed beside him, leaning in close to Tony's face. Tony just arched an eyebrow, unconcerned as Steve studied him. “Drinking, but not drunk,” he said at last, straightening up again. “So, this was all an act. Care to tell me why?”

“Some might have been concerned about her possible presence in your bedchambers,” Tony said, yawning. “And encouraged me to make certain that you didn't end up with a knife between your ribs.”

Steve shook his head, even as he stripped his shirt over his head. “Fury sees assassins everywhere.” He folded it, letting the fine fabric slide through his fingers. 

“He's not wrong,” Tony said, moving only far enough to fold his hands beneath his head. His back arched a bit as he settled into the mattress. “You are a target, even if you don't want to admit it.”

Steve let out a snort. “No one is trying to kill me. Other than you.” He took a seat on the side of the bed and pulled his boots off, then his socks. “You, you're trying to kill me on a daily basis, Tony.”

“This seems unfair,” Tony mused. Steve glanced in his direction, and Tony's eyes were closed, his dark lashes curled against his cheeks. “I am your most loyal and devoted subject, my lord.” He stretched again, his bare feet flexing on the blankets. “Just ask anyone.”

“If I took you up on that, it would result in a great deal of laughter.” 

“You are known for your wicked sense of humor,” Tony agreed. 

Steve paused. “I'm sorry.”

Tony waved a hand. “I know.”

“I just-”

“I know,” Tony repeated. “But not sorry enough to rescind the order.”

Steve's eyes squeezed shut. “Just until the negotiations are over,” he said. “I can't-” He stopped, and this time, Tony didn't let him off the hook, he just let the silence stretch. “I need you to be safe.”

Tony took a deep breath, and released it. “Fine.”

Steve glanced at him, but Tony's face was unreadable. “Fine?”

Tony's lips kicked up on one side. “Will it do any good to fight you?” he asked.

“No,” Steve admitted. “I- No.”

“Then why bother? I haven't the energy.” One hand came up, rubbing idly at his breastbone through the fine linen of his shirt. “And everyone glares at me when you're unhappy. It's almost as if they think I'm the reason for your poor mood.”

Steve smiled. “I hate it when you aren't talking to me,” he said. He stood, unfastened his pants and stepped out of them, folding them before setting them next to his shirt. Bare except for his drawers, he headed for the bathroom. 

Tony yawned. He hadn't moved, his body still lax, his eyes still closed. “Take a bath.”

“We're having a discussion.”

“So leave the door open and keep discussing,” Tony said. “I spent enough time and effort putting in those pipes. You ought to use them more often.”

“I use the bath,” Steve called back. But as much as he hated to admit it, it sounded like a good idea right now. Everything ached, his back and his shoulders and his legs. It had been a long day, a long week. He gave the graceful, elegant copper tub a sideways look. “What makes you think that I don't?”

Tony's laughter floated through the air, soft and warm. “Because you only let me lay the pipes so that the kitchen staff could avoid the constant trips to the well.”

“I appreciated your efforts on their behalf.” Steve leaned back out of the bathroom. “And let's not pretend that you didn't get the benefits of their appreciation as well.”

Tony's teeth flashed in a wicked smile. “They were most appreciative,” he agreed. There was a knock at the door, and he rolled off of the bed before Steve could move out of the bathroom. “Go. In the bath. I asked for a tray to be sent up.”

“I'm fine,” Steve said, bracing an arm on the doorframe. “I don't need-”

“I sat next to you at dinner, you do realize that, don't you?” Tony asked, his head tipped back over his shoulder. “You spent the whole meal networking and chatting and moving food around your plate. At this rate, you'll waste away to nothing.”

Steve looked down at himself. “Think I can afford to miss a few meals,” he said. “I'm not a scrawny child any longer, Tony.”

“And your people would like to keep it that way. Bath.”

“Are you giving me orders?” Steve asked, grinning.

“One of the privileges of my position,” Tony agreed. He gave Steve a deep bow. “Bath. Please. My liege.”

“I don't-”

“Yes, you do.” Tony paused at the door, staring at Steve, his eyebrows arched high. “Bath. Unless you'd like to give whatever chambermaid who won the drawing of straws a show.”

Steve couldn't do anything about the way his face flushed, the way he immediately retreated into the bathroom. He heard Tony chuckle, and he slammed the door, just because he could. He considered setting the lock, but he suspected that wouldn't actually stop Tony.

As he filled the bathtub, he could hear the low murmur of voices outside the bathroom, Tony's warm tenor tones and the softer, higher tones of whatever young woman had brought the tray. She laughed at something Tony said, or maybe just the way he looked at her, or smiled, it could be almost anything. Tony had a way of doing that to people, of making them feel like they were the most fascinating person he'd ever spoken to.

Or maybe it was just Steve that felt that way. He wasn't sure. But he knew that men and women alike gravitated to Tony's side, to his bed. He had an easy charisma, and he used it brilliantly. Steve resented it, a little, how easily Tony got along with people. 

But mostly, he resented the stirrings of something that felt unpleasantly like jealousy that showed up every time Tony charmed someone who wasn't, well, him. 

Sighing, he fumbled amongst the bottles that were arrayed by the tub in a set of silver trays. He could never remember which one was which. He wished Pepper and her staff would label them, but it seemed like a stupid thing to have to ask for. He picked one at random and uncorked it, sniffing lightly. 

It smelled okay, and he dumped some in, only to watch the surface of the rising water explode with bubbles. Amused, he shucked his drawers just as the bathroom door opened.

There was a beat of silence, then Tony sighed. “How long does it take you to get into the damn tub?” he asked, an odd note to his voice.

Steve stepped into the water, settling down with a bit more speed than he'd intended. Water splashed over the edge. “Knock next time,” he said, trying to suggest, rather than order. But there was nothing he could do about the flush that had risen on his face, other than hope that Tony would assume it was from the hot water.

“And miss the show?” Tony kicked a stool over, a wooden tray braced on one hip, a bottle of wine in his other hand. He took a seat next to the bathtub, setting the tray down. It was loaded with plates, filled with thick slices of steaming bread, chucks of cheeses and cold meats, and an arrangement of fresh vegetables. Tony picked up a knife and a small pot, spreading a thick layer of bright red preserves over the surface of a slice of bread. “I don't see the point.”

Steve took the bread from him. “Have you eaten?” he asked, even as he bit into the bread. The strawberry preserves were sweet and sharp, full of seeds and sugar, melting into the crumb of the bread. All at once, he realized that he was hungry, and he took another huge bite.

“I sat next to you at dinner, you know I did.” Tony assembled a sandwich of sort, spreading soft cheese over the bread and adding thin slices of chicken and tomato. 

“You drank more than you ate, and talked more than you drank,” Steve pointed out. “I'm not completely oblivious.” 

“Luckily, they've anticipated your objections and sent more than enough for both of us.” Tony plated the sandwich and reached for the wine. 

“Doesn't mean you'll actually eat,” Steve said, used to his tricks. He studied Tony, watching his hands as he popped the cork, and poured the wine into the waiting glass. “When's the last time you slept?”

“This morning,” Tony said, the response so smooth and easy that it couldn't be anything other than a lie. He brought the glass of wine to his lips, and Steve took it out of his hand before he could even get a sip of it. “I was going to pour you one,” he said, his eyes dancing.

Steve pointed. “Eat,” he said, and drained the glass in a few quick swallows. Tony was smirking at him when Steve fumbled the glass back into his hand. “Not a word.”

“I wouldn't dare, my liege.” Tony reached over him, the grabbing a bottle from the silver tray with barely a glance. “Duck under the water for a moment.”

Steve glared at him. “You're not my servant. I have enough of those.”

Tony uncorked the bottle, and poured a measure into his palm. “I might not be your servant, but I am your consort, and you won't let anyone else help you”

“I can wash my own hair,” Steve said, reaching for the bottle, and Tony held it out of reach. “And there are more important things for people to be doing than catering to me.”

“And yet, here we are,” Tony said, spreading his hands. “You're right. I'm tired, I'm hungry, I'm frustrated and I am bad at being anything other than an ass, so in about ten seconds, I'm going to be forcing your head under the water myself. So you can either actively resist me, and delay the inevitable, or you can, for once in your stubborn, muleheaded life, make things easier for both of us!”

Steve stared at him, struggling to keep a straight face. “Ten minutes is always the limit for how long you can maintain a subservient attitude before you begin insulting me to my face,” he pointed out. 

Tony put a hand on the top of his head and shoved. Steve didn't fight it, sliding under the water and coming up laughing. “That was not ten seconds,” he sputtered, scraping water off of his face with one hand.

“Close enough,” Tony said, dumping the scented soap onto Steve's head. “You are an ass.”

“You are trying to kill me,” Steve said, even as he leaned into the comfort of Tony's hands. The strong fingers smoothed over Steve's hair, rubbing with firm strength. Steve let his eyes close, enjoying the contact, as fleeting as it was. 

He missed being touched. God, how he missed being touched. 

“Do you like her?”

Steve jolted. “What?” he asked, his eyes opening. 

“The Lady Natasha,” Tony said. “Hold still.” He scraped suds off of Steve's forehead with one finger. “You walked with her a lot longer than I thought you would. Usually you put off your admirers a lot quicker than that.”

Steve thought about that. “I don't know,” he admitted at last. “I expected to dislike her. That didn't happen.”

“It's that unfortunate streak of fairness we keep trying to beat out of you,” Tony agreed. He was still scrubbing Steve's hair, and Steve didn't object, relaxing into the strong pressure of Tony's fingers. “She's interesting.”

Steve took a deep breath. “She reminds me of Peggy,” he said, and Tony's fingers stilled. “In some ways. In others, she's so different.” He leaned his head back, looking up at Tony. “She's deceptive, impossible to pin down. I think she lies, without even thinking about it. I could almost see her changing, right in front of me, adjusting her, I don't know, her act.”

Tony's eyebrows arched. “People do that, you know,” he said, his voice soft. “If they want to be liked. They learn what you like. And that's what they become.”

Steve sighed. “I hate it.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, and it came away covered in soap. Shaking his head, he pushed Tony's fingers away and finished washing it himself, then ducked under the water. When he came back up, Tony was wiping his hands on a towel. Steve pushed his wet hair away from his face. “Is a little honesty too much to ask for?” Steve asked, and he didn't intend it to come out as melancholy as it did.

Tony paused in the act of pouring another glass of wine. “Maybe,” he said, his voice careful, “you want more honesty than most people are comfortable with.” 

Steve's head fell back on the rim of the tub. “I miss Peggy,” he said, his voice quiet. “And Bucky.” His fingers flicked at the surface of the water. “Actually, I don't miss Buck. I blame Buck. This should be his problem.”

“Then the bastard went and died on you,” Tony said, holding out a glass of wine. “That seems to be a reoccurring problem in our lives.”

Steve took it. “I never wanted the crown,” he said, his voice quiet. “I just-” He sighed. “Wanted to do what was right.”

“And you did what was right,” Tony said. “By taking the crown.” He cut the sandwich in half and held the plate out. “I'll eat half if you'll eat half,” he offered, almost coaxing. 

Steve nodded. “Let me finish here,” he said.

Taking the hint, Tony stood. His white shirt, thin and fine already, was wet now, clinging to the skin of his chest and stomach. He'd rolled up the sleeves, and his forearms were dotted with beads of water, caught in the dark hair. He was damp and flushed and he smiled at Steve as he collected the tray. “Not leaving until you eat,” he said.

“That's usually my line,” Steve said, sinking lower in the bath, trying not to think of the lines of Tony's back, his shoulders, the narrow width of his hips. He squeezed his eyes shut until he heard the bathroom door close. Then he drained the bath, running out the warm water. 

When he ran the water to rinse off, it was as cold as he could make it.

His skin was still cool and damp when he wandered back into the bedroom, the thin fabric of his pants clinging to his legs. Tony was sitting on the edge of the bed, his shirt tossed to the side. Steve paused, pained by the knots of scars that covered Tony's chest. Tony's fingers were massaging the skin, his face tight. 

Tony looked up, and caught him staring. “I'm fine,” he said, with a faint smile.

Steve nodded, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “I know.”

Tony flopped down on the pillows. “Come eat,” he said. “And stop worrying about something that healed years ago.”

Steve joined him on the bed. Half of the sandwich was gone already, and he picked up the other half. Tony poured him a glass of wine and handed it over. He ate as Tony sliced chunks of cheese and sausage in companionable silence, stealing bites between handing tidbits over to Steve on the point of the knife.

“Up for a game of chess?” Tony asked.

Steve pushed a hand through his hair, his fingers tangling in the strands. “I just want to sleep,” he said, and he could hear the exhaustion in his voice. He didn't sleep well any more. All through his childhood, he'd spent the coldest nights with Bucky nearby, the two of them huddled under the blankets, laughing the way that was solely the purview of children. He paused, wanting to say it but almost afraid to. “Will you stay?”

“That's what I'm here for, isn't it?” Tony said, with an easy smile. “To keep the very pretty wolves from your door?” Steve snagged a crust of bread, and Tony mock slashed at his fingers with the knife. Steve laughed, and went back for a bit of cheese and apple. “Will you let me do this?” Tony asked him, trying to keep a straight face.

“You're too slow,” Steve said, grinning. He relaxed back against the pillows, his head tipping in Tony's direction. “Do you ever wonder why we're friends?” he asked, his voice quiet.

Tony shrugged. “I don't think on it much,” he admitted. He was peeling an apple, turning the fruit in those amazing fingers. “I heard about you so much growing up. Every time my father came home, he was full of stories about you and Prince James.” His mouth kicked up in a wry smile. “Always the two of you.” 

Steve hated that, the melancholy sadness that seemed to swamp Tony when he talked about his father. “I'm s-”

“Not your fault,” Tony interrupted. His shoulders rose in a faint shrug. “I think, after my parents died, after I was summoned here, I hated you.” He looked at Steve. “I wanted to hate you. I was just... Bad at it.” He held out a perfect slice of apple. “You were so-” He stopped, sighing.

“Broken,” Steve said, smiling.

“Not that, not ever that,” Tony chided. “Just-” He considered for a moment, his knife careful as he peeled another apple. “As mired in grief as I was. I thought if I was a complete disaster, you'd send me away, and I'd be done with the whole mess.” He paused. “I apparently failed at that, because here I am.”

“You spent half the first week drunk off your feet and the other half churning out armor and weapons faster than anyone I'd ever seen,” Steve said. “You're not good at being useless.”

“That was more to spite my father, than anything else,” Tony said. 

“Natasha said,” Steve started, taking another slice of apple from him, “that maybe we should be more concerned with the living than the dead.”

Tony nodded. “She did, did she?”

“I think she may have had a point.” Steve chewed on the apple, savoring the sweetness, the crisp crunch of the flesh. “You're the only one who uses my name.”

Tony was already shaking his head. “That's not true.”

“Feels like it.” Steve scrubbed a hand over his face. “How did I end up here?” he asked with a half-hearted smile.

“Because we needed you,” Tony said. He rolled off of the bed, setting the tray aside. He poured the last of the wine into the glass and handed it to Steve. “Drink that, you'll sleep better.”

Steve drained the glass as Tony extinguished the lamps, and banked the fire. When he came back to the bed, he crawled under the covers.

Steve set the glass aside, and closed his eyes. He was exhausted. Tired enough, maybe, to sleep through the night. He always slept better with Tony there. He shifted to the side, his eyes closing. He knew that by the morning, he'd wake up half wrapped around Tony, or Tony would be sprawled across his chest, either of them, or maybe both, desperate for the warmth. Even more desperate for the contact.

He wished he was anyone other than who he was.

“You know what they say, down in the pubs?” he said, into the darkness. “That the Iron Man is Bucky's soul, risen to walk the world. To protect us. That he will come, when things are the worst.”

Tony was silent, his body still in the bed next to Steve. “I've heard that,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. “Can you blame them? They miss him, too. They want him back, even in a way that allow him no rest.”

“It almost makes sense,” Steve said, trying to smile. “He'd been dead for a few years, when the Iron Man first appeared. He'd-” He stopped, closed his eyes. “Foolishness.” 

He rolled over, and next to him, Tony shifted. “Why?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Because if it was Bucky, he would tell me.” Steve bunched his pillow beneath his head and let himself sink into the bed. “He'd tell me the truth.”

Tony didn't speak for a long moment. “Maybe,” he whispered, “you expect too much of people, Steve.”

Steve smiled. “Probably.” He let out a breath, a soft sigh of an exhale. “I miss him,” he whispered.

“I know.”


	3. Chapter 3

Steve slipped out of bed before dawn, long before Tony stirred. Leaving Tony sprawled beneath the sheets, he headed out of the castle, taking the main road out of the city and down through the countryside. The ride, fast and rough, cleared his head, and stretched his muscles, but the trip to the bridge left him with more questions than answers.

The sun was up by the time he headed back, stopping here and there to speak to a farmer in the fields or a child driving cows or sheep out to the pasture lands. He wasn't particularly surprised to spot the man sitting on the low stone wall next to the road, his bright red shirt almost glowing in the early morning sunshine. Sam looked up as Steve rode up next to him, grinning. “Good morning, my liege,” he said, with an easy grin. He had a heavy leather glove on one hand and an apple in his other. 

"Aren't you supposed to be recuperating?"

Sam considered that, then took a bite of his apple. "Don't know about that," he said at last, grinning. "Aren't you supposed to be negotiating?"

"You must be joking. Most of this lot sleeps til noon," Steve grumbled. He leaned over, arms folded on his saddle. "You out here alone?"

"Are you?" Sam shot back. "You've more reason to fear than me." 

“I'm incognito,” Steve pointed out. He was dressed simply, in a rough shirt and pants, battered boots, and a heavy cloak. He'd even taken one of the horses from the guard paddock, a pleasant, well trained black gelding that seemed as happy to take an early morning walk as Steve was. From a distance, he would look like nothing more than another weary traveler.

Sam gave him a look, hopping down off of the wall. He reached up and rapped a knuckle on the cloth slung over the back of Steve's saddle. The soft ping of fingers on metal, even muted by the cloth, was familiar to them both. “Oh, yeah, you're invisible,” Sam said, with a grin.

“Well, you know me a bit better than most.” He straightened up, his eyes playing over the landscape as he did. The sky was clear and a beautiful blue, nearly cloudless, and the there was birdsong on the air, songbirds and the sharp cry of a hawk. The air was clean and carried just the faintest hint of damp soil. Steve took a deep breath, filling his lungs while he could. “You should not be out here alone, Sam.”

Sam didn't object. He held up his arm, and Redwing wheeled in to land, wings fluttering delicately as he came to rest on Sam's glove. The hawk shifted from side to side, fluffing his feathers as he settled down. "Just letting him out to stretch his wings."

Steve reached out, rubbing a careful finger across Redwing's head. He moved on Sam's wrist, leaning into Steve's touch. "Next time, bring a few of the guards with you," Steve said. He dismounted. "Come on, I'll walk you back."

Sam shook his head, but he didn't object. Slipping the hood back over Redwing's head, he fell into step beside Steve. "Any signs of trouble?" he asked, taking another bite.

Steve shook his head. "Not unless you count reports of the king's own guard swiping fruit from the orchards. That, I heard all about." He gave Sam a look out of the corner of his eyes. "You just can't resist, can you?"

Sam laughed. "You say that like you ever could. I'm providing a valuable service, checking to make sure they're ripe before you get hold of them."

"Obviously. I should've known." Steve held out a hand, and Sam stuck his apple in his teeth and reached into his bag. Pulling out a bright red piece of fruit, he tossed it to Steve, who plucked it out of the air with one hand. "Lousy thief."

"Sire, you wound me." Sam grinned, obviously unconcerned. "I need to eat to get my strength back, don't I?"

Steve took a bite of his apple, savoring the taste. "How are you?"

Sam's smile died. "I'm fine, Cap." He held out his free arm, flexing it easily. "Even Bruce says so." He caught the look on Steve's face, and gave him a smile. "I'm fine," he repeated. His voice was gentle. "You know that, don't you?"

Steve nodded. "It's hard."

"I know." Sam offered his apple core to Steve's horse, who took it with delicate care. "How much of this is me, and how much is Tony?" he asked at last.

For a long moment, Steve said nothing. He just concentrated on the landscape, his eyes moving over the fields and fences of the farmland surrounding them. Sam kept pace, and companionable silence. “I've lost a lot of people,” he said at last. “Don't have many left.”

Sam's head dipped forward. “The war's over, Cap.” His eyes slid in Steve's direction. “I know it doesn't it feel like it, some days.”

Steve nodded. “I don't like it,” he admitted. “I don't like it at all. You and Tony, you're-” His jaw locked. “You're all I have left. And both of you get attacked in the space of two days?” Steve looked up at the sky. “I don't like it,” he repeated.

“You think the attacks are connected.” It wasn't a question.

“Yes. Don't you?” Steve asked. 

Sam considered that. “No,” he said at last. “I don't.” He shook his head. “The attack on me was focused. Purposeful. This mess with Tony seems-” His nose wrinkled. “Too random, too uncontrolled.”

“Purposeful,” Steve said. “Killing you?”

Sam's mouth opened, and he paused. “Strange thing is, I don't know.” He shook his head. “I thought, at the time, that he was after the information I was carrying. But it would've been an easy thing to just cut my saddlebags free and be gone, before I even got my wits together to do anything about it.”

They walked in silence for a while, Steve turning that over in his mind. “So what was he after?”

“No idea,” Sam said, his head tipping to the side. “Honestly, I thought at first that he was-” He stopped, grinned. “I thought it was an attempt to steal my horse, at first. It took me a few blows to realize he was trying to kill me.”

“You always were a little slow to figure out that people are trying to kill you,” Steve pointed out.

“I'm a likeable sort, Cap,” Sam pointed out. “I'm surprised when people somehow overcome my natural charm.” 

“It's a puzzle for the ages,” Steve said, deadpan, and Sam laughed.

He sobered quickly, though. “It's bothering you. More than it should.”

“Something feels wrong," he admitted at last. “Stupid. I know. But-” He shook his head. “Still feels that way.”

Sam nodded, his fingers trailing over Redwing's feathers. “How bad was the fight with Tony?”

"What makes you think that I fought with Tony?" Steve rolled the apple in his hand, pressing it between his hip and his hand. Giving up on the idea of eating it, he offered it to the horse, who took it eagerly. 

“Because I know you,” Sam said, amused. “And Tony.” He gave Steve a look. “And the two of you fight on a good day, and yesterday? Was not a good day.” 

“He's impossible,” Steve said, and Sam laughed. He fished another apple out of his pocket and polished it on his shirt, ignoring the fact that his shirt was probably far more filthy than the apple was. 

“You're a good match in that,” he said, when Steve gave him a look. “He's as headstrong and reckless as you. And chafes just as much at being told what to do.” He waved his apple in Steve's direction. “You cannot lock him up in that damn tower of his, Cap.”

“I'm not-”

“You want to, though,” Sam said. His head tipped in Steve's direction. “Don't you?”

“You weren't there when Rhodey brought him home,” Steve said, his jaw tight. “He was more dead than alive.” He didn't like to think about it, didn't like to let his mind linger on it. On the memory of that barely breathing skeleton that had been riding in front of Rhodey, barely able to hold his head up. Tony had been sunburnt and scarred, painfully thin and too weak to stand unassisted.

But he'd grinned at Steve, wide and sharp and easy, still Tony, even beneath that pain. 

Steve shook his head, turning his thoughts away with a force of will. “He never quite recovered.” He took a deep breath, and the damp air tasted like copper in the back of his throat. “He still hasn't.”

Sam was silent, considering that. “Cap, when you were a child, how did you like it when people tried to coddle you?”

“It's not the same thing.”

“No,” Sam admitted. His eyes slanted in Steve's direction as they came into sight of the city gates. “It's not. He's a grown man that you're treating like a sickly child.” He bit into his apple. “You know that's going to end badly, your majesty.” 

Steve hated it. That moment when he shifted from being 'Cap' to being 'your majesty.' He never objected to it. He understood it. But he still hated it. Tony was one of the few who said the two, and 'Steve,' and had all three mean the same thing. No separation. No difference.

To Tony, he was just Steve. And Steve needed that, more than he wanted to admit.

The pastures outside the city were filled with tents and small encampments, the guards and soldiers that had come along with the envoys. Fury had put his foot down about standing armies, no matter how small, taking up residence within the city walls. Even so, the soldiers had come and gone over the last few days, to the delight of the local merchants. Steve had been concerned about trouble with so many of them in relatively close quarters, but there'd been no major problems. For the most part, peace had been maintained, and trade was happening out here, as well, even if it was on a smaller scale.

Even from the road, Steve could see a well-tended fire, surrounded by a dozen or so men or women. Judging by their clothing and armor, they were from different kingdoms, and followed different rulers, but for now, they were united by one thing: a steaming pot of coffee. All other considerations and all other differences were secondary to that.

Steve couldn't think of much better to unite a group of tired soldiers, far from their homes.

They approached the main city gate, and the guards gave Steve a bow and Sam a wave. Redwing shifted on Sam's arm, wings flapping. Sam laughed. “Oh, you know you're almost home, don't you?” He brought his arm up, smoothing the hood off of the hawk's head. “If I let you go, do you promise you'll go straight back this time?”

“If you happen to see the rabbit that's been nibbling on the turnip greens, you can feel free to take care of it,” Steve said with a smile. “Consider that a royal decree.”

“This is one subject that listens only to me,” Sam said. “And thank God for that.” He scratched Redwing's head and tossed the hawk up. He took off, wings beating the air as he headed back for the mews in the castle. One of the guards up on the wall held up a hand, and the hawk dipped around his fingers for a moment before flying off.

Steve watched him go, his eyes narrowing. “It was Redwing,” he said. Sam gave him a questioning look, and Steve shook his head. “That's it. You said the man who attacked you, you thought he was trying to steal your horse at first? That's why he wanted the horse, your horse. Because of Redwing's cage.”

Sam shook his head, pulling his glove off. “You've lost me, Cap.”

“You always secure Redwing's cage behind your saddle,” Steve said. “And every guard, every knight in the city knows it, knows that cage. If a figure in your cloak, on your horse, comes riding up to the gates, what's the chances they'd be stopped?”

Sam considered that. “They should be.”

“They wouldn't be,” Steve said, shaking his head. “All he had to do was dispose of you, loose or kill Redwing, take your cloak and your horse. He'd be into the city, probably even into the castle, before we ever realized something had happened to you.” His jaw locked. “Especially if your horse was in the stables and the guards reported you'd returned.”

Sam let out his breath on a faint whistle. “He wanted in.”

“He wanted in,” Steve agreed. “The attack on Tony was something different.”

“A distraction,” Sam filled in.

“Probably.” Steve resisted the urge to curse. “Or a way to get me out of the city.”

“You really think they're connected?”

“I've gone over the reports, for months of border skirmishes, unsolved attacks, robberies, everything the council has collected. There's nothing like this, Sam, not like either of them. The timing is too coincidental.” Steve shook his head. “Yes. They're connected. I'm certain of it.”

“Then I guess we'd best watch our backs,” Sam said, as they passed into the central market square. A few shops were open now, their proprietors opening the shutters and sweeping the front steps. A cart or two had already arrived, and were being unloaded, shipments of wine and vegetables, fresh cheeses and trade goods.

Before Steve could say anything further, a familiar figure came into sight, arms filled with bolts of jewel toned cloth. Steve secured the horse to a nearby post and stepped forward to take them.

“It would be easier if you just had these delivered to the shop instead of your house,” he said to Jan, who waved off his objection.

“But then I would have to wait all night until I could begin my work,” she said, a bright grin splitting her face. “Good morning, Sam. Your majesty, what are you wearing?" she asked, her mouth pursing.

Steve laughed. "Is that disapproval I hear in your voice?"

"I would never presume to scold you, your majesty, but my thoughts are so full of disapproval that it's possible you're picking that up," she said, opening the door for him. 

"I wasn't aware that I was telepathic." He set the bolts of cloth down on the polished wood of her worktable. 

"I am thinking very loudly." She opened the shutters, flooding the space with early morning light. "Why are you wearing that?"

"He's incognito," Sam said, leaning against the doorframe. He took a bite of his apple. "Can't you tell? He blends right in."

"It's as if he isn't even here," Jan said, one finger pressed to her lips. 

Steve couldn't hold back a smile. "Do you have something else to say?"

She waved him off. "It hurts me to see you like this. There is- There is actual pain involved, you couldn't possibly understand."

Behind him, Sam let out a snort of laughter. Steve ignored him. "I am a soldier at heart," he pointed out.

"Yes, but you could be a king on the outside. The part the rest of the world SEES," Jan said. She walked past a shelf, snagging a bolt of fabric as she went. She picked up another, and a third, piling them on her workbench. “Arms up, your majesty.”

“I don't have time for this, Jan,” Steve said, but he raised his arms anyway.

“I don't need time.” She threw a swathe of fabric over his shoulder, lifting it up to hold it next to his cheek. “Good color on you,” she mused. Another strip of fabric was layered over the first, and she bunched them together. “Hmmm,” she said, tapping a fingernail against her teeth. “Maybe-” She bounced back towards the shelves, pulling bolt after bolt of silk and wool and linen fabric out. “With this as the trim-”

“I do not have time today,” Steve repeated, because it bore repeating. 

“I have your measurements, I just need to-” She flipped a strip of silk over his nose and mouth and grinned up at him. “This one. Makes your eyes glow.” She pulled it back, the fabric fluttering through the air. She flapped a hand at them. “You may go, your majesty. I'll be here. Making a soldier into a king.”

“Is that all it takes?” Sam asked, chuckling. “A nice shirt?”

“Mock all you want,” Jan said, reaching for a piece of chalk. “But the right outfit can trick just about anyone.” She bent over her work table. “I'll have it done by tonight, your majesty.”

“I'll save it for the feast on the last night of this madness,” Steve said. She mumbled something under her breath, clearly no longer paying any attention, and he headed for the door. 

“That woman's terrifying,” Sam said. 

“That she is,” Steve agreed. “We need more like her.” Grinning, he stepped back into the street. A cart was rolling by, piled high with produce, and Steve raised his hand, catching the driver's attention. 

The farmer doffed his cap, bowing over his reins. “Your majesty?” he asked.

“Are you heading to the castle?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“Room in your cart for him?” Steve asked, hooking a thumb in Sam's direction. Sam groaned.

“I don't-”

“Yes, your majesty, provided he don't mind a little dirt,” the farmer said, his tone apologetic.

“He's fine with that.” Steve picked up his horse's reins. “Take the ride, Sam. Or you can take the horse, and I'll ride in the back of the cart.”

Sam gave him a look. “This seems like a threat.”

“You could see it like that.” Steve held out the reins. “I think of it as sound strategy.”

“You would.” Sam ambled over and boosted himself up onto the back of the cart, settling back against a pile of sacks and putting his feet up on a wooden barrel. “Actually, this isn't bad.”

“See? I'm always looking out for you.” Steve nodded at the farmer. “You have my thanks.”

The man bowed again, quick little bobs of his head. “It doesn't even bear mentioning, sire.”

Steve smiled. “It does for me.” He mounted the horse with an easy movement, settling back into the saddle. “Go rest, Sam.” Without waiting for a reply, he tucked his heels lightly against the horse's flanks, nudging him forward.

He headed up the road to the castle, keeping the horse to a low canter, moving easily through the morning traffic. People were up and moving now, craftspeople and farmers, children heading for the communal wells with a piece of bread in their hands, or a slice of apple in their teeth. They waved and bowed and called out to him, and Steve nodded and waved back, making the trip up the road to the castle as quickly as he could manage it.

He returned the horse to the stables and took his shield, glancing up at the sun's progression before he stepped back into the courtyard. The kitchen staff would be laying out breakfast soon, even now he caught the smell of bread and roasted nuts, the sweet smell of scorched sugar wafting through the air.

Steve paused for only a moment, then turned his steps. He had time to check in with Tony before breakfast. Maybe smooth things over, make his peace. He shouldered the shield and headed for the smithy.

Smoke was curling from the chimney, and the windows were open, the shutters thrown wide. As Steve approached, he heard voices from inside.

"It won't work."

"And yet, it does, repeatedly, it does work, it always works, so I'm not sure-"

"It will not last."

"What does? It works well enough to-"

"So short sighted a viewpoint. You should only produce work of which you can be proud. This is the only-"

"I'm proud that I haven't kicked you out of my smithy, that's what I'm proud of, what are you-"

Steve rapped his knuckles on the wood of the door, pausing for a beat before he pushed it open. "Am I interrupting?"

Tony grinned at him. "Would it matter if you were, your majesty?" He was stripped down to a fine linen shirt, but it was streaked with soot and sweat, his hair a damp tangle of black waves. He turned the sword that he was working on against his anvil, hammer flashing through the air in a series of rapid blows. 

On the other side of the workspace, T'Challa was leaning against the workbench, his eyes narrowed against the light of the forge, his mouth tipped up in an easy smile. He seemed amused, but gave Steve a cordial nod. Steve returned it with a forced smile.

"I'd like to think I still possess manners," Steve said. He set the leather satchel on the far bench, feeling stupid about it now. And oddly enough, like he was intruding. He wasn't used to that sensation; Tony was very particular about who he allowed into the smithy and Steve usually found him alone down here.

But T'Challa seemed to fit right in.

“Your manners are impeccable,” Tony agreed with a grin. “What can we do for you this morning, your majesty?”

“Thought I'd see if you wanted to come to the kitchens with me,” Steve said. And because that sounded stupid, he added, “It's easier to steal food when you're there, distracting the staff.”

“King T'Challa brought me a plate, actually,” Tony said, plunging the sword into the water barrel. It hissed and threw up steam, and he grinned, pleased with the reaction. 

“I was intending it for my own breakfast,” T'Challa explained. “But it seemed that he had a greater need for it than I.”

“That's often the case,” Steve said.

Tony waved them both off, unconcerned with his status as the lowest ranking person in the room. He'd never been intimidated by status or standing, which is one of the reasons why Steve was so comfortable in his presence. “I have eaten. And I have repairs to make.” He looked up. “Unless you need me to-”

Steve forced a smile onto his face. “No. Of course. You have work to do, and so do I.” He glanced at T'Challa. “I'm told you haven't chosen a meeting time, yet?” he asked.

“This is true.” T'Challa inclined his head. “You will forgive me, I am-” His eyes slid towards Tony, who was already back at work. “Still weighing my options.”

Steve's jaw locked. “Of course,” he said, through a force of will. “Do let us know what you decide.”

“You will be the first to know,” T'Challa said, then turned his attention fully back to the hearth. “Have you considered-”

“I humored you because you fed me,” Tony said, “but the food is gone, and you're still here. Why is that?”

“I cannot be interested in your company?” T'Challa asked, and Tony laughed.

“I don't believe that for a moment. I have no secrets for you to steal, you can take yourself off now.”

“I'm enjoying myself right here, thank you,” T'Challa said.

Steve slipped out of the door. He was fairly certain neither of them noticed.

*

The party had been planned from the beginning. Carefully planned. Far enough into the visit so that the envoys would be comfortable with one another, but not so late that exhaustion or frustration would've set in. Pepper had planned it, from beginning to end, and now she held court in a stunning gown of jewel toned blue velvet.

Out on the broad, open floor, couples danced, skirts swirling and shoes flying over the stone. The musicians played a lively tune, the music rolling through the air, filling the space and drowning out the bright sounds of conversation and laughter. Wine flowed, and food was abundant, and everyone seemed to be having a great time.

Everyone except the king. 

"This is hell."

"You've been to war, and you think that this is hell?"

"There are different layers, you know."

"That is the prevailing theory, yes." Tony gave Steve an amused look out of the corner of his eyes. "I take it you find yourself in fairly deep at this point?"

Steve stared out at the room, his eyes glazed over, his smile pasted onto his face. "Deep enough," he said, his jaw tight.

"Drink your wine, and try not to look like you're going to kill someone," Tony said, his lips curling up. "You look properly murderous."

"I do not," Steve muttered. He took a sip of his wine anyway. "When can I leave?"

"Your own party? You have some time left to serve, I'm afraid," Tony said. 

“What did I do to deserve this?”

“Took the throne,” Tony said. Steve gave him a look. He grinned. “You'll survive it, your highness. I have the utmost faith in your abilities.”

“At least one of us does,” Steve said. The complaint was a low grumble, but somewhere beneath it, Tony could hear the boy who hadn't been raised to this life. Who had stuck to the shadows, who had fought viciously for each victory and even more for each breath.

And he had done it in solitude.

Now, forced into the limelight, Steve struggled to break a lifetime of habits. Tony, who had been mingling at events like this before he could string a full sentence together, did his best to take the weight off of him, and sometimes he succeeded. Steve never asked it of him. But he always seemed to be grateful.

Tony wasn't sure if it was because of the protection, or just the support. But Steve still sank into his shadow from time to time, and Tony almost understood why.

“You're doing fine,” Tony said.

Steve let out a snort, but his face softened into a smile.

Out on the dance floor, Prince Thor swung past, regal in red and silver, his booming laugh audible from anywhere in the room. In his arms, Jane Foster was blushing bright red, but she was smiling and laughing too, her peacock blue dress trailing through the air after her as she spun along with him.

Steve's head craned in that direction. "Was that Jane?" he asked.

"Yes." Tony smiled. "Yes, it was. Janet outdid herself, don't you think?"

Steve gave a quick nod. "Yes, she did." He glanced at Tony, his eyebrows drawing down. "Did you coerce her into showing up?"

Tony gave him an innocent look. "That question shows a distinct lack of trust, my liege. No, I did not, we invited Jane, as we do whenever she's wandering through town."

"And she never accepts, so what-"

Tony sipped his wine. "It would appear that Prince Thor is a bit besotted with our resident stargazer," he said, trying not to smile. "He requested she be present."

Steve's eyes narrowed. "She shouldn't have to-"

"Requested," Tony said. He rolled his eyes. "I'm not in the habit of forcing women into the company of men they dislike. She has no obligation. But he was quite polite when he asked me, and so I asked Pepper to pass on the request, and it appears that Jane chose to make an appearance." His mouth kicked up on one side. "In a new dress, no less. He might not be the only one besotted."

Steve considered that. "Shouldn't he have asked me?" he asked, scowling.

"Possibly," Tony said, considering him. "Except you make that scary face at people, and that makes them less likely to request things of you. I, meanwhile, am well known for my love of joy and love, and therefore, I am happy to play cupid." Steve gave him a look, and Tony grinned at him, unperturbed. "That face. That's the face that causes people to not ask you for things." He pointed. "The one that you are making right now."

"It doesn't appear to work on you," Steve grumbled, but he was trying to hold back a smile.

"I'm immune." Tony arched an eyebrow at him. "That's how I got this post."

“We're in public, shouldn't you be acting with a little more deference?” Steve asked, hiding a smile behind his glass.

“You wouldn't know what to do with yourself if I did,” Tony pointed out. “But if you'd prefer I do the proper thing, I should really go mingle.”

“Don't you dare.”

“I'm sorry, but my lord is correct,” Tony said, trying to sound sad. “I have a duty. I really must-”

Steve's hand clamped down on his arm, without force, but with definite intent. “Don't. You. Dare.”

Tony couldn't manage to hold back a laugh, a little too loud and a little too warm, but the musicians were playing again, a lively tune, and no one seemed to notice. “You are absolutely helpless in a social situation,” he said, and Steve's fingers tightened.

“Yes, I am, so you will do the proper thing and stay right here,” Steve said, his voice stern. 

“I could just-”

“Stay here,” Steve said, and it was a brisk battlefield order, but there was the faintest undertone to his words, an unspoken plea, and Tony subsided. 

“I'm not going to dessert you,” he said, his voice warm. He covered Steve's hand with his own, his fingers squeezing. “I swear to you.”

Steve nodded, and his hand fell away. Tony told himself he wasn't disappointed. He'd expected it, of course, but it still stung. “How are you feeling?” Steve asked, and Tony smiled.

“I'm fine,” he said. “How many more times are you planning on asking me, your majesty?”

“I've learned to distrust your estimation of your own health,” Steve pointed out. “Through harsh experience.”

The music swelled, and the dancers on the floor broke apart with bows and curtseys all around. The dancers mingled, a few clearing the floor and others switching partners with a laugh and a smile. More than a few men and women glanced in their direction, and Tony prepared himself for the inevitable. 

It was Sersi, Queen Medusa's sister, who reached them first. She caught her emerald green skirts in her graceful hands and executed an easy curtsey. “May I have this dance, your majesty?” she asked, smiling up at Steve.

“I am not much of a dancer,” Steve said, with a tight smile.

“I'm sure your majesty is merely being modest,” Sersi said.

“His majesty is not,” Tony said, chuckling under his breath. “He is a rather poor dancer.”

“You should know, you taught me,” Steve muttered.

“My work is never done,” Tony agreed. “I don't suppose the lady would settle for my poor company?” he offered, trying one last time to save Steve before his natural sense of chivalry got them all into a bad situation.

“You suppose correctly.” Sersi never looked away from Steve, a flirtatious smile curling up the corners of her lips. “Please, your majesty? I would be honored.”

“I'll likely step on your feet,” Steve pointed out, but he was already setting aside his wine glass, already stepping forward, his shoulders back and squared, his whole body tense.

“I doubt it very much,” Sersi said, pleased with her victory.

Steve glanced over his shoulder at Tony as he took her hand. “Relax,” Tony mouthed, and Steve's nose wrinkled up.

They disappeared onto the dance floor and Tony knew he should go mingle. He should take the opportunity to walk the large room, speaking to the royals and the envoys and engage the wall flowers. Compliment Pepper for her amazing work. Check the wine and the food and maybe help Carol, who was currently dancing with Namor. But she looked amused, so she probably wasn't going to pitch him out the window for the time being.

At this point, Tony was grateful for that much at least.

But he was stuck in place, watching Steve talk to Sersi, watching her cling to his arm as he spoke to a few others in passing, as they worked their way onto the floor. Tony knew it was pathetic. He didn't care overly much. Or maybe he was just beyond caring.

“Lord Stark.”

Tony glanced over just in time to see Queen Medusa heading in his direction, her consort Blackagar a step or two behind her. She was wearing a long, heavy dress of purple velvet, cut low over her shoulders so her red hair could curl there unobstructed. Blackagar was in black, with silver trim.

"Will you dance?" Medusa asked, and Tony's eyes darted behind her to Blackagar. Medusa eyebrow arched. “Tell me you did not just look to him for permission,” she said, a hiss of ice over the words. “I choose my own partners.”

"I asked no permission, I was merely checking to make sure his daggers were still sheathed," Tony said, grinning. "The lady chooses her dance partners, and I would never presume to say differently, but still. If ever there was a lady lovely enough to go to war over, it would be you." He bowed low over her hand, brushing his lips over her knuckles.

She smacked him lightly on the top of the head with her folded fan. "You are a flatterer and a knave," she said, but she was struggling to hold back a smile. 

"He's not wrong," Blackagar said, a smile of his own hovering around his mouth. It was the most expression that Tony had seen him exhibit since he arrived. "You are well worth going to war over."

"You say that only because you know me, he says it because he thinks I'm beautiful."

Blackagar arched an eyebrow. "And I do not?"

"Perhaps we should dance together," Tony suggested. "It might extract us both from this conversation with our skins intact."

"It might be our only hope," Blackagar agreed.

"Absolutely not," Medusa said, her chin coming up. “I don't trust you with him.”

“Probably best you don't,” Tony said. He bowed again. “I am honored by the invitation, my lady.” He offered her a hand as the musicians began the playing again, a lilting little intro to allow couples a chance to reach the dance floor.

"Is it true you make the armor for the guard?"

"Not all of it," Tony said, smiling. "I'm good. But not quite that good. But the court armor, as well as a lot of the more high quality weaponry. Mostly swords. But armor is my specialty." The music rose and fell and they moved easily through the crowded floor. The heavy fabric of her skirts swirled around his legs with each turn. “I enjoy making armor. Nothing against a solid weapon or two, I enjoy those as well, but crafting armor...” He smiled at her. “I do like making something that could save the life of a friend.” 

“How long have you done it?”

“All my life,” Tony said, honestly enough. “But if you mean, when did I start serving the king and the kingdom? At seventeen.”

Her eyes widened. “So young?”

“Many start their life's work far younger.”

“Few that have such a position of power,” Medusa pointed out. Her hand flexed on Tony's waist, and Tony took the hint, moving seamlessly to the side to avoid another couple.

“Well, the position, I inherited that from my father, as he inherited it from his father.”

Her eyebrows arched. “How odd, to have a nobleman working as a smith.”

"Ah, but you have it backwards," Tony said. He executed a neat turn, and she followed, graceful and light within the circle of his arm. "We're not nobles who became smiths. We're smiths who, by grace of our skill, were granted nobility." He leaned in. "Also, I suspect that my ancestor was providing other services to the queen, but that's just a gut feeling."

Medusa gave him a look. "I cannot imagine how you reached that conclusion," she said.

"It does seem a stretch. Swarthy, well-muscled, clever, charming rogue at the forge? Clearly not the sort a queen would go for." 

"If she had sense, she would,” Medusa said. “So you took the position from your father at seventeen?”

“After his death, yes, I was called to court to serve as the King's Smith.” Tony smiled down at her. “The other position, I got on my own merit.”

“So I see.” Her head tipped down, brilliant red curls bouncing around her shoulders as the dance went on. “One of the few benefits of rulership. One does get to choose ones own consort.”

“Yours seems most loyal.” 

“He is, at that.” Her eyes flicked up, full of laughter. “And affectionate, as well.”

“How could he be otherwise?” Tony said, making her laugh out loud. “Tell me about your kingdom, my lady. I've heard it is wonderful.”

One arched eyebrow made it clear she knew what he was doing, but she permitted him to change the subject. She spoke quietly of her home and her family as the dance continued, neither of them needing much thought to continue. When the music slowed, Tony glanced over, just in time to spot Steve, his face set in tense lines, trying to extradite himself from Sersi's arms and her affections.

He heaved a mental sigh. “My apologies,” he said. “But have you any objection to changing partners? I think my king would do with a slightly less enthusiastic one.”

“Enthusiasm is one thing Sersi excels in,” Medusa agreed. “Are you sure you are up to the task, Lord Stark?”

“Likely not,” Tony admitted. “But I am more suited to it than his majesty is.” He grinned. “By far, I'm afraid.”

Medusa was struggling to keep the smile off of her lips. “Your loyalty to your station is admirable.” Her eyes flicked up. “I shall collect my sister. Despite what you might think, you are not prepared for Sersi in high dudgeon.” 

“The rumors of your kindness and mercy are obviously underestimated.” Tony let her take the lead, expecting some complicated discussion or fight. Instead, he watched, amused despite himself, as she neatly button hooked her sister and walked away with her, leaving Steve gaping in their wake.

Tony smiled. “May I have this dance, your majesty?” he asked, and the relief on Steve's face was reason enough for him to do it.

“Yes, you damn well can,” Steve agreed. “And it's about time.”

Tony laughed. “You really are done, aren't you?” he asked, warmth sweeping through him.

“I can do this,” Steve said, even as he settled against Tony. For a moment, his body leaned heavily against Tony's, the need for support, for contact, a visceral thing. Tony's eyes slid shut, and he heaved a mental sigh.

“All right, then,” Tony agreed, but he tucked his head near to Steve's, his lips almost on Steve's ear. “Follow my lead,” he whispered, as the music started up.

“What are you-”

“Getting you out of here,” Tony said, smiling. “Trust me, my liege.”

It was an easy enough act, in that it was barely an act. Tony curled himself close, hands sweeping against Steve's back, over his shoulders, his fingers weaving together with Steve's. Steve was still for a moment, and then, as Tony tugged at him, he took a stumbling step forward. “Easy,” Tony whispered. “Dance with me.”

“I'm lousy at it,” Steve mumbled, but he was relaxing under Tony's hands, the tension seeping from his muscles. 

“Only because you tense up,” Tony pointed out, smiling. “Only because you don't trust yourself.”

“I'm certain I shouldn't.” But Steve's steps were smoothing out, his natural grace and control coming back to him now that he wasn't overthinking what his body was doing. At ease in Tony's presence, he could just move, without worrying where his hands and his feet were, without worrying about exerting too much force or too much pressure.

He just danced, his eyes half shut, a smile easing the strain from his face.

Tony laughed, at nothing in particular, and it drew eyes from all over the room. He kept his movements careful, nothing inappropriate, nothing that would cause more than a raised eyebrow. But he smiled at Steve as if Steve were his entire world.

And that was no act, either.

The music rose, and Tony leaned in, whispering, “Come along, my liege.”

Steve blinked down at him. “What-”

Tony slipped from his arms, keeping one hand tangled in Steve's. “Come along,” he whispered, and his smile held a clear invitation. “For heaven's sake, my liege, just- Pretend you want me.” Without waiting for a reply, he headed for the door, and Steve followed him without another protest.

There were a few stifled burst of laughter as they passed by, a few smiles hidden quickly behind hands and wineglasses, but Tony ignored them, grinning at the room at large. In a matter of minutes, they were out the door and gone.

It wasn't until they reached the courtyard that Steve stopped, dragging Tony to a stop. “What was that all about?” he asked, and Tony glanced back at him. His face was flushed, his eyes dark and hooded.

Tony gave him a smile. “You can't just decide to leave your own party,” he pointed out. “But if you're seduced, well, then, no one thinks twice on it.”

Steve laughed. “Was that what that-” He dragged Tony back in. “I'm fine.”

“I know,” Tony said, smiling back. “Let's go play chess, shall we?”

Steve didn't move, his hand still locked on Tony's. “I dance better with you than with anyone else,” he pointed out. “I never even managed it with Peggy.”

Tony smiled. “You trust me,” he said. 

“I trusted Peggy.”

“But you were also worried about stepping on her toes. You don't care at all about trodding on mine.”

“You are the worst liar, Stark.”

“I know,” Tony turned back towards the stairs. He really did know.

*

Steve was never so glad to breathe fresh air.

The rain had stopped, for the time being at least, but the stones of the courtyard were still wet, water clinging to the seams between them. The air was crisp and damp, cool and sharp as he sucked in a breath and another. The light of the lanterns flickered over everything, but they weren't really necessary. The moon was heavy and golden, hanging high in the sky, and everything was a little brighter, a little warmer than it would be otherwise.

Steve paused, enjoying the space and the brief moment of freedom.

“Your majesty?”

Steve glanced over. Tony was waiting for him, halfway up the exterior stairs. He had a hand braced on the wet stone of the wall, and his dark hair was disordered, damp already from the air. He smiled. “I can leave you alone if you'd prefer.”

Staring up at him, Steve could not think of anything he wanted less than that. “Dance with me,” he said, and it came out wrong, more order than request.

Tony arched an eyebrow at him. “You want to go back in?” he asked.

“No. Here.” Steve smiled at him, warmth curling in his chest. “Dance with me.”

Tony gave him a look, but he was still smiling. “What are you about?” he asked, but he turned, ambling back down the stairs. 

“I am not permitted to ask you for a dance?” Steve asked, holding a hand out. Tony considered him, his expression unreadable, but he gave a graceful bow and set his hand into Steve's.

“It's rather that you don't enjoy the act, so usually you only do it under duress,” Tony said. “Or if there's an audience.”

There was an audience, of sort, a few guards on patrol at the top of the walls, carefully avoiding looking in their direction, and a girl from the kitchens who was filling a basket with wood, her head down to hide her smile. 

“I just want one dance with someone-” He cut himself off, and swallowed the words. The way he always did. “Can't I dance with a friend? Just once?”

Something strange flickered over Tony's face, but it was gone as soon as it appeared, and Tony's fingers squeezed his. “Of course.” He looked up at the sky. “As long as we can accomplish it before it starts raining again.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “I'll do my best not to get you wet,” he said, amused. Taking a deep breath, he pulled Tony into his arms, trying to remind himself that he'd been doing this since childhood, that he knew how to dance, that he'd always been able to dance, that there was no reason why he couldn't dance.

No reason other than the way his heartbeat skyrocketed when Tony slipped a hand over his shoulder. No reason other than the way that his whole body lit up at the touch, at the way that Tony smiled at him. Steve sucked in a breath, and another, concentrating on not embarrassing himself.

He promptly stepped on Tony's foot.

“No, no, it's-” Tony was laughing, and Steve let him go, throwing his hands in the air. “Get back here,” Tony said, catching his arm. “You can do this, you just need to actually enjoy it, instead of dreading it.” 

“I do enjoy-”

“Of course you do, your majesty.” He turned to the side, his gaze lighting on the kitchen maid, still hard at work. “Miss? Come here, help me with this.”

The girl paused, her hand stilling in the act of dropping a log into her basket. “My lord?” she asked, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear.

“Mary Jane, correct?” 

She gave a quick curtsey. “Yes, my lord.”

Tony waved an imperious hand in her direction. “Come here. I need someone who won't kick me in the shins.”

Steve crossed his arms over his chest, amused despite himself.

“I don't know how to dance, my lord,” Mary Jane said, wiping her hands on her apron. Her face was bright red now. “I should get Gwen for you, she can dance, she's very good at it.”

“You can't dance? Not at all?” Tony asked, grinning at her. 

Her fingers twisted in her apron. “Just country dances, my lord.”

“Ah, good, I know a few-” Tony stopped, his face twisting up as he thought. “Do you know this one?” He started humming, one foot tapping on the stone. Mary Jane shook her head, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. She kept darting little looks in Steve's direction, and he smiled at her, trying to look reassuring.

“Just humor him,” he said, and she clapped both hands over her mouth. Her eyes were dancing.

“Cruel, my liege,” Tony drawled. He tapped a finger against his lips. “How about this one?” He started to hum, a song that rose and fell with a sprightly rhythm.

Mary Jane's face lit up. “Yes! Yes, that one, I know that one!”

“Mary Jane, what are you-” The girl froze, halfway out of the kitchen door, stumbling to an awkward stop. She recovered quickly, dipping an easy curtsey. “My lord. Your majesty.”

“Good, good,” Tony said. “I'm trying to show his majesty how this is done.” He gestured with one hand. “Come on, you can help.”

“My lord?” But she crossed over, wiping her hands on her apron. Her pale hair was caught back under a kerchief, and she snatched it off, stuffing it into the ties of her apron. “What-”

“Dancing, come here, please.” He waited until she got close. “Gwen, is it?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good.” Tony smiled at Mary Jane. “Ready?” She gave a quick nod, a smile darting over her freckled face. Tony bowed, and she curtseyed, and their hands came up, coming to rest against the other's. With Tony humming the tune they started dancing.

It was a simple dance, designed for two people to dance together for a short while, feet light and quick on the ground. Then, with a swirl of steps and a kick of feet, they were meant to change partners, moving up and down a line or in a circle. Instead, Tony swept out an arm, catching Mary Jane around the waist and spinning her easily through the air. She was laughing as her feet came back down on the stone, and their hands came together for one last pass.

“See?” Tony said to Steve. “Easy.”

“Easy,” Steve agreed, even as Tony pulled Gwen in. Giggling, she joined him with a quick flick of her feet, her hair swirling behind her as she spun. Mary Jane, shoved gently in Steve's direction, stared at him with huge eyes. She caught her skirts with fingers that shook, and she managed a curtsey. “You don't have to-” Steve started, and her face fell. 

“Of course, your majesty,” she started, a brave smile crossing her face.

“You need the practice,” Tony pointed out, circling with Gwen, his hand on hers. His head tipped in Steve's direction, his eyes dancing in the moonlight. “And she's a quick girl who knows to keep her feet out of reach.”

Steve glared at him, and Tony grinned, unconcerned. He went back to humming, both of he and Gwen coming to a stop next to Steve and Mary Jane. Taking a deep breath, Steve held up a hand. “Miss?”

Her smile had all the warmth of the midday sun. Her hand, when it came up, was light and rough and warm against his. Tony, next to him, started humming again, and they started to dance. Steve tried to keep his head up, his eyes on hers, on Gwen's, and on Tony's, when they switched partners, and back again. It wasn't as hard as he'd thought it would be. He might not know all the steps, but this dance came easier.

He was laughing by the time Tony wrapped an arm around his waist, making a comical attempt to lift Steve off of his feet. “Should I just jump?” Steve asked Gwen, who had both hands clapped over her mouth to hold in a laugh.

“That would be appreciated,” Tony said, both arms around Steve's waist now, sending both girls into gales of laughter.

"And this is where my staff has disappeared to.”

Everyone stumbled apart, the girls drawing themselves up like soldiers whose general had entered the courtyard. May Parker, the head of the kitchens and second only to Pepper as keeper of the keys, stepped out of the kitchen door. “What do you two girls think you're doing?” she asked, her voice stern despite the twinkle in her eye.

"We had need of their assistance,” Tony said, catching Gwen's hand and swinging her around. She was laughing when she finally managed to stumble to a stop. “They were kind enough to assist us.”

“It is my fault,” Steve started.

May gave him a shake of her head. "With all due respect, your majesty, we both know that you are not to blame for this complete breakdown in behavior." Her eyes slid sideways towards Tony. "You, meanwhile, my lord..."

"I'm hurt," Tony drawled. "I was merely attempting to provide his majesty with a comfortable environment in which to learn a new skill.”

"You are a scoundrel and a knave, and a tricky sort," May said, unconcerned. 

"Now, that is just unfair." Tony grinned. "I am the offended party here. His majesty was seducing people right in front of me. While I was right here." He gave her a sad look. "It's the burden that I am forced to bear."

"You will end up in the dungeons one of these days, see if you don't," she said. 

"Probably," Tony said, unconcerned.

"I think he's still useful," Steve said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I am overwhelmed by your praise, your majesty," Tony said.

"Your ego doesn't need any additional help."

Gwen stifled a giggle behind her hand, and May looked around. "Back to work," she said, making a shooing motion with her hands at the girls. "Both of you." Tony took a step towards the kitchen, and she swatted at him with her apron. "You have had your fill already tonight, Lord Mooch."

“But I'm still hungry,” Tony said, innocently.

“Then go to satisfy your hunger else where,” she said. “Girls, back to your posts, the party is still going on.”

Gwen and Mary Jane curtseyed in unison. “Thank you, your majesty,” Mary Jane said, her voice shy. Gwen just grinned, tying her kerchief back in place before she snagged Mary Jane's basket of wood.

“Go,” May said, pointing, and they went. “Good evening, my lord, your majesty,” she said, nodding at each of them in turn.

“May?” Steve said, ignoring the way that Tony was chuckling.

She glanced back. "Your majesty?"

"They only did what they were asked to do," Steve said, quietly.

May nodded. "I understand, your majesty. But they know their jobs."

"And I know their worth." Steve glanced up at the sky. The moon was visible now through the clearing clouds. "Nearly time for the harvest. After this is all over, you and Pepper and I need to discuss a festival for everyone."

Her smile creased her cheeks. "A reward?"

"Thanks. For a job well done."

She folded her hands in front of her. “Your majesty, they had a chance to dance with the king beneath the harvest moon.” She dipped a curtsey of her own. “I'd say that's thanks enough.” She inclined her head in Tony's direction. “It was kind of you.”

“I just wanted to dance with a pretty girl. Nothing more to it,” Tony said, his voice so flippant that it could only be manufactured for the purpose of covering something up. May arched an eyebrow at him, but her smile was approving. 

“They have been hard at work since very early this morning,” May said. “And yet, just now, they were walking as if their feet didn't hurt at all. So you were worth something, at least.”

Tony laughed. “That was mostly the king,” he pointed out.

“I have no doubt.” With one last nod, she headed back into the kitchen. “Still. Tomorrow, I might just make those sweet buns you enjoy so.”

“You tease,” Tony called after her.

“My lord, I would never.” Then she was gone, shutting the kitchen door firmly behind her, and leaving Steve and Tony alone in the courtyard.

Tony caught his hand and swung him around. "One last try," he said, his voice quiet in the damp night air. He held up his hand, and, with a smile, Steve put his against it. Tony's fingers twitched, and he resisted the urge to weave their fingers together. Instead, he took a deep breath as Tony started humming, low and soft, deliberately slowing the tune down.

Steve extended a foot, and Tony mirrored it, rocking his weight forward, then back. Steve watched his feet, a small smile on his face as they walked through the pattern, circling each other. Tony didn't say anything, didn't correct his mistakes, just kept up the humming, a soft half-lilt of a song. His feet light on the stone, he stepped forward, and back, and spun his body, Steve following along, behind a by a beat and not caring. Their palms separated, and came back together.

It was a simple dance, with simple steps. Slowly, Tony brought the song up to speed, and Steve matched his movements, matched the rhythm of the notes. His foot hit a puddle, just enough to splash them both with water, and he laughed, his cheeks pink. Tony, never missing a beat, skimmed his boot over the stones kicking up a splash of water.

"Very mature," Steve said, grinning.

With a straight face, Tony kicked water at him again. "Always, my liege," he agreed, making Steve laugh.

Their dance dissolved into childish play, both of them trying to splash the other without ending up soaked. Somewhere along the way, Steve realized that they were holding hands, if for no other reason than to keep the other from getting out of range.

Half dance and half fight, they continued circling, until, as they turned, Steve's arm wrapped around Tony's waist. For an instant, they both stilled, then Steve was lifting him off of his feet as they spun, before setting him neatly back on the ground. For a moment, they just stayed there, side by side, his breath suddenly raw in Steve's throat. Without a word, they both moved, both taking a step back and bowing in tandem.

The wind kicked up, rattling the leaves in the tree over their heads and sending rain drops splashing down. 

“Thank you,” Steve said, his voice quiet. 

Tony paused, just for a moment, and then he caught Steve's hand in his and brought it to his lips. His breath skimmed over Steve's knuckles, the sensation almost unbearably intimate. Steve's heart seized in his chest, his whole body twitching, even as Tony's mouth lingered against his fingers. 

His eyes canted up towards Steve's. “The honor is mine, your majesty.” He stepped back, and Steve's hand slipped through his fingers. Tony turned, heading back for the stairs. “Chess?” he asked. 

Steve watched him move, aching for him, aching for his attention, for his affection, aching for everything that he couldn't have. “I know you've been cheating on me,” he managed, his throat raw. Tony glanced back, amusement and confusion on his face, and Steve forced a smile. “You've been playing chess with Bruce and Reed.”

Tony arched an eyebrow. “And Jane,” he said, a wicked smile on his face. “And occasionally Pepper, but that's been going on for a long time. You should be used to it.”

“You are the worst consort,” Steve complained.

“Well, keep my attention and I won't be forced to go elsewhere for my intellectual stimulation,” Tony said.

“I'll keep that in mind,” Steve said, his voice quiet. He could hear the longing there, in every word, but Tony just smiled at him.

“Shall we go?” he asked. “I have to rest my aching feet.”

Laughing, Steve followed him up the stairs. It wasn't what he wanted. But he'd had one dance, one real and perfect dance. For now, it was enough.

*

Phil watched, amused, as the two men headed inside. He was fairly certain that they were both soaked from the knees down. Phil gave Fury a look out of the corner of his eyes. "You really think he's going to get married, sir?"

Fury heaved a faint sigh. "Stranger things have happened, Phil."

"That is likely true, sir, but I can't think of any." 

“At this point, Phil,” Fury said, rubbing the bridge of his nose with tense fingers, “it's either get married or deal with the situation he's made for himself. What do you think is more likely?”

Phil considered that. “I think it's far more likely that he'll attempt to maintain the status quo for as long as possible, which means keeping Stark in his current position as well as fending off any attempt at marriage or romantic entanglement,” he said at last.

“This is why I do my best not to speak to you,” Fury said. “It's so depressing, Phil.”

“I do apologize, sir.” He shrugged. “On the positive side, his majesty might remain a bachelor, but I do believe we're making some significant... Alliances elsewhere.”

“Keep up that positive thinking,” Fury said. He turned and headed back to the great hall. “I do expect we're going to need it, Coulson.”

Shaking his head, Phil stared up at the night sky, trying to judge how long it would be before the rains started. The clouds seemed to be done, for the time being, and he turned to head back inside, putting his back to the courtyard.

Something moved.

Phil paused, his feet stilling on the damp stones of the wall. For an instant, he struggled against the feeling of something being wrong. Very wrong. 

A guard passed him with a pleasant smile and a nod, and Phil returned it without thinking. The lights of the lanterns flickered, and the wet stone reflected it, making shadows flicker in and out of existence. There were people here and there, reflections of light from the kitchen windows and the towers, there was movement.

But his mind was howling at him that something had moved. Something had moved where it should not have.

He turned, spinning on his heel, just in time to see the shadow slip through behind a guard, passing through the light only long enough to become a human form for an instant, and then the darkness swallowed it back up. The flicker of movement, the instant of humanity was so fleeting that Phil almost believed that it hadn't been there at all. That his exhausted mind was playing tricks on him again.

But he was already moving towards the gate.

By the time he reached the main road, he was running, his hand on his sword, his boots flying over the packed earth and stone. He hadn't seen the shadow again, hadn't seen anything other than a guard or the occasional man stumbling back from the tavern, a bit worse for his drink. Feeling like a fool, he ran, through the silent streets, all the way to the main city square.

Even the puddles were still, as if no human foot had disturbed all evening. Cursing, Phil pulled to a stop, acknowledging the stupidity of what he was doing. Of chasing someone without knowing where they'd gone, what route they'd taken, if they'd headed for the wall or deeper into the city. Now, with the moon his only light, he knew that his chances were slim.

“Slipped away from you, did he?”

Phil turned, his sword out and ready in one smooth stroke. The man who came ambling up the street towards him was stumbling with each step, his body swaying like a blade of grass in a heavy wind. He grinned at Phil, with the expression of a man who'd found everything he wanted in the bottom of a beer tankard.

Phil's eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

Barton gave him an easy smile. "Getting a drink." He tipped his head back in the direction of the tavern. "How about you?"

“Taking a brisk walk around the city,” Coulson said. He resheathed his sword.

"Who were you chasing?"

Phil froze, a fission of awareness rolling over him. "What makes you think I was chasing someone?" he asked at last, not turning.

Barton's laugh was soft and low, but it carried an edge, a sharp note. "I've seen enough hunters after prey to know a pursuit when I see one." He ambled forward, his hand resting lightly on the wood of his bow. "Though I didn't see who you were after."

"But you still think I was after someone?"

Barton's mouth curled up in a smile. "You were. My only question is, who."

Phil stared at him, silent. "What concern is it of yours?" he asked at last. "What is your interest?"

"Just the idle curiosity of a bored man deep in his cups." 

Except it wasn't. Phil took a deep breath. He smelled of alcohol, and he was making a deliberate effort to appear unsteady, but his gaze was sharp beneath the hood of his eyelids, and his fingers were steady on his bow. "If you didn't seem me chasing someone, if you just saw me, why assume I was chasing anyone at all?"

"Not many other reasons for a man like you to be running through the streets in the middle of the night." Barton's fingers flexed, his thumb tapping against the bow, a tic that he didn't seem to know he had. "Either you're chasing someone." Barton's teeth flashed in a grin. "Or someone's chasing you. Don't see anyone nipping at your heels, so I'd say it's the former."

“No,” Phil said, the word coming out before he realized it was there. “No. That's not the reason. You came after me expecting me to be chasing someone.” He took a step towards Barton, a little too close now, but Barton held his ground.

“You think so?” Barton's head tipped forward. 

“Yes,” Phil said, his voice clipped. “So my only question is, why?”

Barton considered him, his face unreadable, that lopsided smile still firmly in place. “Tell me who you were chasing,” he said at last, “and I'll tell you why I followed.”

“I don't know who I was chasing. But I begin to suspect that you do.” He leaned in, his eyes narrowing. “Tell me who you believe I'm chasing, or I'll have you escorted out of the city at swordpoint,” Phil said, less than amused.

Barton laughed. “You can try,” he said. The tip of his bow hit the stone with a sharp click. “I'm almost willing to let you try, but the Lady would have my head.” He grinned. “But I would like to see you try.”

Phil let his eyebrows tip up. “No. You wouldn't.”

Barton's smile died. “I am not your enemy, Coulson. We want the same thing.” He turned on his heel, cloak curling around his ankles.

“And what do you think that is?” Phil asked.

“A very dangerous situation to enter into alone.” He pulled the hood of his cloak up. “Your king is in danger. Possibly mortal danger.”

“The fact that you rode out to help Lord Stark is the only reason I am not having the watch throw you off the cliff right now,” Phil explained. “Just so you are aware. You are on very shaky ground.”

“I've been there before. Near enough made my home upon it.” Clint shrugged. “I find it doesn't concern me.”

“Does it concern the lady who brought you into our walls?”

“Who were you chasing?” Barton's fingers twitched again. “Ask yourself that, if you will not answer me, ask yourself that.”

“Someone has been asking about the Iron Man,” Phil said, instead. “Rumors that have been silent since the war ended have suddenly been stirred up again. And you are exactly where you should not be, asking questions you should not be asking, and making veiled threats against my liege.” He didn't move, barely breathed. “A thousand things you could be asking about, a thousand rumors you could be spreading. But I suspect you've been asking about the Iron Man. Why?”

“Don't you think it's odd?” Barton replied. “That the man disappeared as suddenly and completely as he appeared? That he seems to appear when your country falls to chaos, when the lines on the battlefield are on the verge of breaking?”

He turned, and beneath the hood of his cloak, only his mouth was visible. “And now they say he has been spotted again. Years after the war ended, years after you've won. The knight that rides the wind is suddenly on everyone's lips.”

“Because you put him there,” Phil said, but Barton was already shaking his head.

“I am only seeking information. Not creating it.” He took a step forward. “You speak in whispers of ghosts that should have died on the field of battle, with tired soldiers finding their way home. Every nation has a legend they haul out when things are low, when morale ebbs. Yours is the Iron Man. But he is not the only one.”

Phil's eyes narrowed. “No. He isn't.”

“If the Iron Man has reappeared, after so long,” Barton said, his voice nearly a whisper, “why do you believe he's the only one who can?”

He slung his bow back over his shoulder, his cloak flaring out with the movement. “You were chasing a ghost, my lord. But not yours.”

Phil stared into the empty square. “You're talking about the Winter Soldier.”

“My lady is looking for someone,” Clint said. “Pray she finds her target before her target finds your king.”

“I do not fear a ghost.”

“You ought to.” Barton turned on his heel. “Some of them haunt us for a reason.”

And with that, he was gone, heading back up towards the tavern. Phil, unsure why he was listening to a word of this, headed to the castle. 

Fury needed to know. Now.

*

"Don't you think this is beneath the dignity of a king?"

"I think you overestimate my dignity," Steve said, setting another log on the chopping block. He hefted the ax and swung, splitting the log with one blow. He collected the pieces and tossed them on the pile that was rapidly filling the nearby cart, then picked up another log. "And my upbringing was more focused on being useful than preserving my dignity."

Natasha smiled, curled beneath the hood of her cloak. It was pulled tight around her body, to ward off the morning chill. "You do this every day, don't you?" she asked, her small hands curled tight around her mug. She brought it to her mouth, inhaling the steam before she took a sip of the hot tea.

"Not this, particularly," Steve said. He set his feet and swung, cleaving the log neatly in two. "But something. Something useful." He smiled at her, his shoulders rising in a shrug as he tossed the wood on the pile. "There's crops to bring in, and shearing to be done, repairs to be made. Troop exercises and weapons practice." He set another log on the chopping block. "There's always something to be done."

Her head tipped to the side, her eyebrows arching. "But why do you feel the need to do it?" she asked. There was a note of humor in her voice, a gentle tease, but no censure. "You are king."

"Doesn't mean I can't be useful." He thought about that, his axe resting lightly on the side of his boot. "Actually, it's more of a reason to be useful."

"Aren't you concerned they will stop respecting you?"

Steve looked at her, his smile dying. "Why? For doing the work they do every day? Should they respect me more for considering their jobs beneath my dignity?" He shook his head. "Seems backwards, to me."

"But a king who thinks he's a farmer is no king."

"Well." Another log placed, another swing, and he was picking up the pieces. "Perhaps I'm more of a farmer, and a soldier, than a king. But for the time being, my people seem satisfied enough with my performance." He grinned. "I'd actually feel for any one who tried to take the job; most rulers don't seem to be capable of doing much of use. And by now, my people rather expect a helping hand.”

“A dangerous precedent you've set there,” Natasha said, smiling into her cup.

“Maybe so.” He smiled at her, wiping his brow with the back of one wrist. “But what else do I have to do?”

Her head tipped to the side. "Shouldn't you be getting ready for the negotiations?" she asked, one eyebrow arching up.

"I've found that mostly, people talk around me," Steve said. "Which is probably wise. Counselor Fury and Pepper do far better than I ever could. Today-" He paused, and swung again. "And sometimes, none of us are necessary. The Asgardian delegation seems more interested in speaking with Sue and Faiza than with any of us."

"The younger prince has an interest in magic," Natasha mused. She paused, her cup at her lips. "I would not give him all your secrets."

"I find that those who use magic tend to guard their secrets very well," Steve said. "Don't understand it, myself."

"Most have their secrets," Natasha said. He glanced over, caught by the strange note in her voice. She smiled. "How did you come to the throne, if you were not born to it?"

The change of subject caught him off guard, and he paused. "My mother was a distant relative of King Phillip's. Very distant." He set the ax on the chopping block and set to work rearranging the burden on the cart. "So distant that I think the only reason she took advantage of it was because she had no other choice. My father died in the wars, and she had no where else to turn."

He swung himself up onto the cart, re-stacking the wood to keep it balanced. "He took us in, raised me alongside Prince James. I was never the heir, I just was blessed with a king who tolerated my presence and a friend who dragged me along in his wake." He grinned. "At least, as much as he could. I could never keep up with him when it came to physical training."

"I have heard that you were small as a child, and often ill." One foot emerged from the cover of her cloak, stretching out to the ground. "I do not think I believe it."

“Are you calling me a liar, my good lady?” he asked.

“It seems a useful sort of of legend to have,” Natasha pointed out with a faint smile. “The miracle king.”

“No miracle,” Steve said, but to this day, he still wasn't sure what Erskine had done, what combination of science, medicine and magic that had made him what he was. “Just a very good doctor. He wanted to help people.”

“But he didn't?”

“He died, right after-” Steve's hands flexed on the ax handle his fingers straining against the unyielding wood. “After helping me. One of the Red Skull's spies.”

Natasha's lips pulled back from her teeth, and she muttered a curse under her breath in her own tongue. “Red Skull,” she spat. “We spent years clearing the countryside of his abominations. The world is better without him in it.”

“That's my view of the matter,” Steve agreed. He paused. “It's not better without Dr. Erskine, though. He was just one of many losses, but I always wondered what he could've accomplished if he'd lived.” He moved away from the cart and grabbed another log. “What any of them would've accomplished.”

Natasha was silent for a moment “I had heard you had a lover. But I didn't know if I should believe it or not.”

Steve ducked his head, feeling his ears heat. “Not a lover,” he managed, taking a swing with his ax. “Just someone I loved.”

“Was she a knight?”

Steve shook his head. "She was a strategist." He smiled. "The best I've ever known."

"They say that you are."

"They might say that," Steve said, his mouth kicking up, "but they're wrong." He straightened up. "She was brilliant. She was one of King Philips' advisers, and I don't think he trusted anyone the way he trusted her." He paused, one dirty hand resting on the cart. "Losing Bucky hurt him. Losing Peggy killed him." He shook his head. “He died soon after that.”

“Leaving you alone,” Natasha said.

“Not alone. I had a whole kingdom to think of,” he said, with a wry smile. 

“Did she die in battle?”

"Peggy was in a camp, a few miles behind the front line. It got hit." He bent his head over his work. "There were no survivors." His shoulders rose and fell in a quick shrug. “By the time we got there, the camp was nothing but ash.”

Natasha huddled over her cup, her body tucked forward as if she was savoring what little warmth there was left. "I'm sorry for your loss."

He nodded, a quick jerk of his chin. It hurt, it still hurt, he suspected it would always hurt. But the thought of her, of Bucky, no longer carried the same sting. It was a hollow ache now, like the absence of something that he had depended on for far too long, and now found was gone. He could function without them now, but he wondered if he would ever really be able to let them go. He wasn't sure he could.

He wasn't sure he wanted to.

"It was hard," he admitted at last. "No body to bury. No grave to visit. For either of them.” He shook his head. “I think that's enough for today. It's getting late.”

He set the ax in the side of the cart and jumped down to the ground.

Steve untied the horse, smoothing a hand over the animal's nose as he tossed his head. “Hey, now,” Steve soothed. “Come on now, don't you want your breakfast?” He glanced at Natasha, and offered her a hand. She took it, stepping down from the wall. “Would you like a ride, my lady?”

“On the back of a horse cart full of wood?” she asked, her eyebrows arching.

“Well, you can drive, and I can ride on the back,” Steve offered with a smile.

Natasha pulled her hood over her head. “I think I prefer to ride up front,” she said. She took the reins from him. “Unlike you, I do have dignity to consider.”

Steve gave her a low bow. “As the lady wishes.” He headed to the back of the cart and boosted himself up onto it. 

Natasha stared at him. “Really?” she asked, her smile just visible under the shadow of her hood. “You're going to ride back to the castle like that, aren't you?”

Steve leaned back against the woodpile. “Well, I am, if you're actually planning on driving it. Otherwise, it looks like we'll just be sitting here in the sun for a while.” He folded his arms behind his head, letting his eyes close. “I wouldn't be adverse to that, just so you know.”

“I'm sure you wouldn't.” Natasha sounded amused, but the cart creaked as she took a seat on the front of the cart. And then, with a snap of the reins, they were moving forward. 

“See, I knew you were a practical sort of lady,” Steve said, grinning up at the sky. 

“If you begin singing, I will leave you here.”

“That's a risk I'm willing to take,” Steve said, grinning.

*

The passage from the cliffside was thin and narrow, and dark. Tony had walked it so often that he didn't even have to think about it, the armor melting away as he headed back for the basement door. 

The passage hadn't been of Tony's making; Howard had left it behind. He'd had his own reasons for having a secret way from the city house, down to the base of the cliff beneath the castle. But what his reasons were, he'd kept secret. It was a security flaw so gaping that Tony should've sealed it as soon as he'd found it.

But it was a way to get Iron Man out of the city without being seen. And his secrets were more important than anything else, in the end. He was an ass like that. 

He slipped through the hidden door, emerging between crates and racks of wine bottles, slipping the stone door closed behind him. 

“So, did you betray our friendship the same day? Or did you wait for nightfall?”

Tony stopped, his hand flat on the door. “Rhodey...”

“No, my lord, no.” Rhodey stepped into the light, his arms crossed over his chest, his face set in unhappy lines. “You promised me you wouldn't do this.”

“I said I wouldn't do it, unless there was no other choice,” Tony said, his voice quiet. “And there wasn't.” He secured the door. “I wondered if you would remember.”

“Remember? I brought you down here often enough. Hell, I carried you down here often enough,” Rhodey snapped. “When it was an actual necessity to slip you from your bed and out into the skies. When he actually needed you.”

“He needs me now,” Tony snapped. “He keeps leaving the damn castle, Rhodey. Alone.”

“Or with the Lady Natasha.” Rhodey's eyes closed. “Tell me you haven't been-”

“Just guarding his back.”

“Is that another way to say spying on him?” Rhodey's voice was disapproving, but that was normal. Tony had known Rhodey almost his entire life, and Rhodey was always disapproving. Which probably said quite a bit more about Tony than it did about Rhodey.

“I'm not spying on him, I'm making sure that he doesn't die alone in some godforsaken field,” Tony snapped. He was tired, the armor always tired him out, and he hadn't slept well last night. Or really, any night since this had started.

Rhodey was quiet. “And how long will you protect him?” he asked at last. “Tony. The man's going to marry. If not her, than someone else, how long will you-”

“As long as I need to.” Tony headed for the stairs, not really caring if Rhodey followed him or not. 

“Tony...”

Tony glanced back, a tight smile on his face. “You think I don't know?” he asked, his voice quiet. “How disastrous this will be?” His shoulders rose and fell in the faintest shrug. “I know. I just don't see any other course of action. He is who he is, and I am who I am, and I will protect him, Rhodey. I've-” His mouth twisted. “Let him be happy. However that comes to pass.”

“If you're seen-” Rhodey stopped, shaking his head. “Tony. If you are seen-”

“I won't be.” But he was fairly certain he already had been.

Because his greatest talent had always been for self-sabotage.

*

“King Steven. I have reason to speak to you.”

Steve paused, halfway across the courtyard. “Your highness,” he said, as the Wakandan king strode up to him. He gave the man a nod. “What can I do for you?”

“It is the negotiation.”

Steve didn't pause, keeping pace with T'Challa without difficulty. “I was under the impression that they were going well.” He headed through the doors of the great hall, T'Challa half a step behind. 

“They are. Your people are clever and, more than that, they are fair.” 

Steve nodded. “So what more are you looking for?”

“I have need of your consort.”

Steve nearly missed a step. “Tony?” He hoped he didn't sound incredulous. Judging by the smile that crossed T'Challa's face, he did. 

“Tony,” T'Challa agreed. He folded his hands behind him, at the small of his back, his shoulders flexing as he did so. “He is your only consort, or so I have been told.”

Steve let out a bark of laughter. “One's enough.” He cleared his throat. “Yes. Tony's my only consort.” 

T'Challa's eyebrow arched. “But you're not sleeping with him.”

Steve stopped dead, his head snapping around. “I beg your pardon?” he asked at last, because he honestly could not figure out anything else to say that wouldn't be a diplomatic disaster. There were a lot of words that were hovering on his tongue, and most of them were very short, and very obscene.

T'Challa paused, his head tipping to the side. “I meant no offense,” he said. “I was under the impression that this was common knowledge.”

“I do apologize,” Steve said, and there was a tightness to his voice that he didn't want there. He didn't want it there, but he didn't have any idea how to get rid of it. “But I'm not in the habit of discussing my personal life.”

“I see,” T'Challa said, and he sounded amused. “In that case, it does make my request far more difficult.”

“Your request?”

T'Challa glanced at Steve, his gaze direct. “I should like to ask him to leave with me.”

Steve stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“I wish for him to return with me to Wakanda, as my consort.”

The impulse to take a swing at T'Challa was sudden and almost overwhelming. But it had been years since Steve had allowed himself that sort of loss of control, years since he was small and weak and forced to fight every battle with his fists and a total lack of regard for his personal safety. He didn't even allow his hands to form fists. Instead, he just asked, “Why?”

“I find him to be clever. A very adept creator, a trait my people prize. He has much to learn about metallurgy, but I think he will be an apt pupil. He craves knowledge, and I believe he will find that knowledge easier to come by, beyond your borders.” T'Challa's teeth flashed, a grin far wider than any Steve had seen on the man's face. “I enjoy his company. I find him amusing. I think I have much to offer him. What more of a reason do I require?”

Steve's chin dipped in something that could be called a nod. “He is my consort,” he said, and his voice was calm. Polite. “And he is the last scion of one of our oldest noble families. His first duty is to me, and to our people. He has responsibilities here.” He managed a smile that felt too tight, too thin on his face, but it was a smile. It did not carry the threat of violence that he knew it could, and he was satisfied with that. “I regret that I must disappoint you, but I cannot permit you your request.”

T'Challa studied him. “Steven,” he said, after a silent moment, “no matter what your relationship with Tony might be, in truth, you speak of his future, as well as your own. From what I have gleaned these past weeks, you hold him in affection. He is your friend, is he not?”

“He is,” Steve said.

“Then why do you think it best that he remain here, without a future?” 

Steve drew himself up, his shoulders going back. “His future is here. With his people. With-” Me, he finished in his head, but he bit back the word. “The answer, respectfully, is no.”

T'Challa considered that. “Even if I make his return with me part of our trade agreement?”

“We do not traffic in human beings as currency, I do not sell my people into bondage,” Steve snapped. “And neither do you.”

“But that being the truth of your kingdom,” T'Challa said, “how can you force him to remain here, if it is not his will to do so?” His expression was amused now, like a large cat playing with a mouse between his paws. “You speak of bondage there, as well. Just a bondage that benefits you, exclusively.”

The trap was so neat and so perfectly set that Steve couldn't even resent it. “I speak of duty,” he said. “He is my armorer, my munitions master. Not for me, but for our people.”

“He has not made munitions in some time,” T'Challa said, waving that off with a flick of his hand. “And you have been at peace now for years. The armor he has built for you is remarkable, considering the lack of education that he began with, and the substandard materials with which he has been forced to work. He could create more than armor.” His hands spread. “He could create far better.”

“For you?”

“I would take the training of him,” T'Challa agreed. “There are things we could learn from him, as well, and I am eager to do so.” 

“No,” Steve said. He smiled again. It felt like it would crack his face, but he forced it in place anyway. “Respectfully. No.”

T'Challa's eyebrows arched. “Here is my offer,” he said, as if he hadn't heard that at all. “We will trade with you. Limited amounts. But far more than any other nation gets from us, and the chance for trade delegations to cross the borders of Wakanda, to make their offers and sell the wares of your people. Our ore and goods for yours. 

“But I will take an envoy back, to learn from my people, and to teach them. In years past, we asked for the son of a household, to come voluntarially to stay within our court. To prevent attack, and also foster the exchange of knowledge. This is our way. You have no sons, you have no relatives, so we are at a loss.” He folded his hands over his chest. “Tony will come back with us, should he be willing. I will guard him with my life, and keep him well. Offer him knowledge and wisdom that he cannot find anywhere else.”

Steve stared at him, stunned the the gall of the request, the sheer tenacity of it. 

“That is my offer.” He turned away, as if that had settled things. “Think on my words, Steven. You are a wise ruler, despite your young age. You will do what is best for your people.”

“T'Challa.” The force of the word stilled the man, and he turned back, his head cocked to the said. Steve smiled again, and this one was dangerous. “If you try to take him from here against his will,” he said, his voice deadly calm, “if you threaten him, coerce him or force him-” His hand settled on the hilt of his sword. “You will not make the border.” 

He let the silence stretch, long and still, between them. “Do we understand one another?” he asked.

T'Challa's eyes were brilliant and unreadable, and he smiled. “I do not know,” he said at last, and there was something like laughter in the words. “But then, I do not think you understand your own motives, which makes it impossible for me to do so.” He inclined his head, a respectful little nod. “I do not take prisoners, Steven. Nor hostages.” The curve to his lips stretched upwards. “Perhaps it is time for you to determine if you take lovers. Because otherwise, I can not see why you would object.”

And before Steve could find the words to say to that, he simply walked out of the hall.

Steve stared after him. “Like hell,” he gritted out, and headed for the stairs to the tower.


	4. Chapter 4

“We can do better.”

“Possibly,” Steve said, biting back a smile. “But I'm satisfied with the terms.”

Pepper frowned at him, and he could see the struggle on her face, the very real struggle to keep from saying that she could not say to her king. After a moment, she let out a sharp breath, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan. “But we can do better.”

Steve gave up and grinned at her. “Pepper, you're going to make them cry.”

“That's how I know I'm getting the best possible terms, your majesty.” She grinned, her cheeks pink. “Until then...”

“I appreciate your efforts on behalf of the-” The sound of the alarm bell stopped him short. He pushed himself up in an easy, fluid motion, heading for the door of the library. Pepper was right behind him, her skirts caught up in both hands as she ran behind him. “You should stay here,” he told her. He took the stairs two at a time, as quick as he could manage.

She gave him a look. “I have to protect my people, too, your majesty,” Pepper said, her feet light on the spiral staircase, and Steve gave that argument up as a lost cause.

They exploded out onto the main floor, and Pietro was waiting for them. The white-haired boy had Steve's shield in one hand and his blue scale mail shirt in the other. Steve took the shirt, yanking it over his head. “Are we under attack?”

“Fire in the smithy, your majesty,” Pietro said. “They can't get the door open.”

Steve's stomach dropped, sudden and sickening. He sucked in a breath, and was running before he even reached for the shield. “Lord Stark?”

“They're looking for him,” Pietro said, and Steve didn't wait for any other information.

In the courtyard, it's easy to see the problem. Smoke was pouring from the closed shutters of the smithy, and a handful of men were trying to knock the door down, knock it in with a heavy beam used as a battering ram. “Move!” Steve yelled, and they scrambled to get out of his way.

Steve brought the shield up, and that was all that he needed. He hit the door with all the force he could muster, ripping the wood off its hinges, nearly ripping it apart. Steve skidded to a stop, blinking hard against the smoke. He covered his mouth and nose with his hand, trying to filter out the worst of it. “Tony?” he yelled. There was no response.

Men were right behind him, buckets of water in their hands from the nearby well, and Steve smashed his shield against the shutters, knocking the windows open.

Light flooded in, and something hit him from behind.

He went down, but he was already rolling, throwing the weight off of his back and bringing the shield around to block another blow.

From the courtyard, the cry went up, “Hydra spawn!” Steve cursed, even as he slammed the shield down on the shadowy magical thing that was clawing at his face. 

It splintered into a thousand fragments, and even as it did, they began to reform. “Get Strange and Storm out here!” Steve yelled, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pietro take off running, faster than anyone else could manage.

They were everywhere, creeping out from the stones and curling from the walls, mindless and violent, attacking anyone and anything in sight. Steve smashed his way through a few of them, kicking and slashing out with the shield when ever he had the space. A cry went up from the castle walls, and he knew the Asgardian delegation had shown up for the fight.

Another loomed out of the night, and Steve blocked, using the shield to throw the shadow back. “Dammit,” he snarled. “Where are these things COMING from?” He turned, slashing out with his shield, and knocking another of the shadows to the ground. It hit and dissolved with a hiss. His head swung around, scanning in all direction. There was no way this many spawn would be here unless something or someone was controlling them. They weren't strong enough or smart enough to attack on their own, especially a coordinated attack like this.

One of the things lunged at him, and Steve kicked it, his boot landing square in the middle of the thing's chest. It crashed to the ground, and for an instant, Steve had a clear view of the courtyard, all the way to the far wall.

There, caught in the light of a flickering lantern, a solitary figure was standing, tall and lean and utterly still. He was enveloped in a black cloak that draped down, almost brushing the ground, hiding everything. Steve's eyes narrowed, and the figure's head came up. For an instant, the light passed over his face, and Steve caught a glimpse of dark hair and little else. Most of the figure's face was covered with a mask, a solid muzzle of black leather.

The cloak shifted, and an arm extended, a silver arm with a red star painted on the back of the wrist.

And then the figure was running, and Steve was running right behind him, rage curling through him. “Stop that man!” he yelled. But it was chaos in the courtyard, soldiers and knights and guards all trying to turn back an attack that seemed to have no end. There were too many attackers, too many fighters in all directions, and Steve was the only one who could stop him.

The Winter Soldier was heading for the gate, pure speed, cloak floating behind him in the breeze. Steve, cursing, brought the shield up and tossed it, flicking it hard at the man before he could escape into the city. The shield cut through the air, and the man turned, hand coming up.

Steve watched, stunned, as the silver hand closed over the edge of the shield. For an instant, their eyes met, and then the shield was flung back at him. Steve caught it, but just barely, his feet skidding on the stone, the impact of the shield rattling the mail of his shirt. By the time he got his breath back, the soldier was gone, disappearing into the city.

Steve took off running.

“Your highness!”

He heard Rhodey yelling after him, on some level he knew he shouldn't do this, knew he was being tricked, but he took off running anyway, his feet flying across the ground. He took a corner too fast, following the faintest shadow on the stones, and his boots skidded hard on the road, his body bouncing off of a building. A door opened up ahead, and Steve yelled, “Stay inside! Barricade your doors!”

He saw the ghost take the corner, some distance ahead, and Steve turned hard to the right. He cut between two houses, hopping one fence and then another, the shield leading the way as he dodged through a herd of sheep. Vaulting the fence with one long legged stride, he shot back out on the road, shield already up.

The punch caught him dead center of the shield, with enough force to lift him off of his feet and sending him sprawling. Steve hit the ground and rolled, the impact rolling through his entire body. The Soldier swung again, fist coming down like a hammer, and Steve knocked it aside with a swing of his shield. The other arm swung around, a knife aiming straight for his face.

He blocked, the shield coming up, but as fast as he was, it was too slow. The soldier was fast, faster than him, and even as Steve moved, he was there, as if he'd known exactly what Steve was going to do. The knife sliced through the air, coming so close to Steve's face that he felt the air part in its wake. He blocked, and slammed a fist into the elbow, forcing the soldier back.

Steve pushed his advantage, the shield coming up, leading the charge, and he swung, every bit of strength in his body following the thrust of his shield. He swung, hard, catching the Soldier in the side of the face, knocking him back and around. Steve went one way and the Soldier went the other, silver fingers digging into the dirt as he dragged himself to a stop. The mask rolled across the courtyard, a swirl of dust in its wake.

The Soldier's head came up, and Steve's heart stopped. For an instant, the ground shifted beneath his feet, his body swaying against the impact of some unseen wind. The Soldier unfolded, and Steve stared, the shield hanging from numb fingers.

“Peggy?”

It was barely a word, barely an exhale of breath, but somehow she heard him. Her head tipped to the side, her eyes going to slits. “Who the hell is Peggy?”

She moved, so fast that he almost didn't have time to get the shield up. It was instinct and muscle memory that saved him, that got the shield up over his head in time to block the thrust of her knife. The blade gouged against the paint, scraping to the edge and hooking over the top. The force of the blow forced him back, forced him down, his legs went out from under him.

He hit the ground, on his knees, staring up at her face, her familiar, alien face. It was Peggy's face, the one that had haunted his dreams for years. But her eyes were different, were gone, flat and black and hollow, a night without moon or stars. She stared at him, but there was no recognition there, nothing at all.

Steve shoved, hard, knocking her back, knocking her off of her feet. She hit the ground hard and rolled, that silver hand digging into the stone. The paving stones shattered under her grip, and she came back up swinging. The blows came, one after another, and Steve blocked them, blocked them with the shield and with his arm. The knife slid across the scale mail of his armor and sliced through his shirt and the skin below.

Steve knocked her back, but her metal fist caught him in the jaw, hard and fast, lifting him off of his feet and sending him sprawling. He hit the ground, face slamming into the unyielding dirt, and he tasted blood and something like ash in his throat. He was on his knees, penitent, lost, and he saw the knife come at his face, a violent slice.

Knife met shield, and then the shield was clattering across the stone. He caught the arm, both of his hands holding one of hers, and he shoved back. Peggy stumbled, and he thought he was going to get the space to find his mind, find his will again, but her foot caught him in the chin, snapping his head back, sending him sprawling.

“Steve!”

“No!” Steve screamed out the word, but it was too late, Tony was there, between them, sliding sideways to block her. Peggy lunged, the blade of her knife stabbing at Tony's throat, and he swung his arm up between them.

Steve saw the red spread across Tony's arm, and thought that she'd stabbed him. But the knife hit with a crack of metal on metal, and Tony shoved her back. She hit the ground and rolled, and Tony's hand swung around.

It was a flash, like moonlight on a wave, and the red spread, swirling around Tony, moving with his body. One, step, two, and the red light, the red liquid was solid, formed into armor that was terribly, horribly familiar.

In the space of two steps, the Iron Man was fighting in front of him again, except this time, he knew who was inside that armor. And that changed everything.

He didn't have time to think about it, he didn't have the heart to think about it, his brain was a wash of rage and pain, and he could not think about any of this. Steve was on his feet, somehow, his body carrying him along when his mind would have collapsed to immobility. He brought his shield around, shifting the grip, and waited for an opening.

But Tony and Peggy were so tangled together that there was no opening, not for the kind of throw that he wanted. Peggy was fast, faster than she should have been, and strong, almost as strong as Steve himself was. He knew that from experience now, and Tony was finding out the hard way. Tony swung, and Peggy caught his hand in hers, spinning and bringing him up and around, slamming him hard into the ground.

His body hit and light exploded, pushing him back up. His shoulder caught her in the stomach, lifting her up and sending them both sprawling. Peggy's knife slashed at Tony's neck, and the tip left a scar across the metal, piercing his shell.

Tony knocked her away, and she landed hard, her metal fingers striking sparks on the stone beneath her feet as they slid. Before Tony could move, could find his feet again, Steve turned and threw, the shield slicing through the air straight for her.

Her hand came up and caught it.

For an instant, their eyes met over the gleaming expanse of the shield, and Steve knew the agony was all over his face. He knew that every moment of loss and pain and fear was there, in his eyes. Hers were flat and dark, empty of everything he remembered. Like someone new was wearing Peggy's face, her form, and Steve wanted to scream at her, beg her.

“Don't,” he said, and it was barely a whisper, it was barely a sound. “Don't make me do this. Please.”

Her arm snapped back, the shield in her grip, and he braced himself. But before she could finish her swing, an arrow arced through the air, slamming into her arm with a flash of purplish light. She screamed, high and sharp, and Steve's shield clattered to the stones.

Tony's hands came up, light curling in his palms, and Steve heard himself yell, “No!” just before an arrow thudded into Tony's back, with enough force to spin him around. Light flared over the length of Tony's body, and he went down, the armor dragging him to the ground. Tony pushed himself up, his hands on the street, and for an instant, the armor was liquid, it poured off of him as if it was molten, his face exposed for an instant between the rivulets, his mouth open and gasping for breath.

Steve lunged, snagging his shield with one hand and bringing it up, a hard, fast throw, but Peggy was gone, and his shield struck the corner of a wall and bounced back into his hand. “Tony?” He snapped.

“I'm all right,” Tony said, and the armor was reforming around him, plates solidifying even as he pushed himself up. “What's-”

Steve was off and running again, his feet pounding on the street, and he knew it was pointless, he knew she was gone. He spun in a circle, looking everywhere, at the walls, the houses, down alleys, every possible bolt hole she could've found, and he knew it was useless. 

Peggy knew every inch of this city, maybe even better than he did. 

By now, the whole city was awake, cries from the guards, and light pouring from the houses all around them. He jogged back, shield gripped in one hand like a lifeline. 

Carol met him halfway back, her sword out and ready. “Your majesty!” she yelled.

“Keep everyone inside!” Steve snapped. “Rouse every guard, every knight, constant patrols until I say otherwise. All the lamps lit, do you understand?”

“Yes, sire,” Carol said. Her face was bone white beneath her helmet. “Was that-”

“The Winter Soldier,” Steve snapped. He wouldn't give her any other name, he couldn't, he was holding on with a force of will. “The arrows-”

“Lady Natasha's guard,” Carol said, already in step with him. “Captain Rhodes has him.”

“Find the Lady herself, something tells me she's in this up to her very lovely neck,” Steve said, stalking into the central square. Carol nodded, and headed for the castle at a run.

Iron Man was still there, on one knee, hands braced on the other. As Steve approached, he pushed himself to his feet, and Steve realized how much of a height difference there was between him and Tony. He stared up into that blank mask, the smooth face of the helmet, and shifted his shield higher on his arm. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice raw.

The helmet fell away, seeming to melt into the armor's shoulders, disappearing in an instant. Tony stared at him, his face almost unreadable as the helmet has been. “You know who I am,” he said.

“Yes, but I thought I'd give you a chance to tell me the truth, after all those lies.” Steve's fingers locked on the strap of his shield, holding on with all his strength. “How'd it feel? Finally answering that question truthfully?”

Tony stared at him. “Too long in coming.”

“Whose fault is that,” Steve said, turning on his heel. 

*

"Explain this."

There was silence. Steve looked around the room. Pinned each person in place, eyes sharp and hard. "Explain. This," he gritted out.

Tony knew he should shut up and try to be invisible now. He'd seen that look on Steve's face a few times before, and it never boded well. But as the silence stretched, it was clear that every one was taking the same tact. 

And he was the one Steve was least likely to kill. 

"I think you're going to have to narrow that down," he said, his voice light. Steve turned a cutting look in his direction, and he steeled himself against flinching. "Your majesty. Listen to me-"

"You," Steve bit out, "need to be quiet right now. Before I say something I will immediately regret." His head snapped around, pinning Clint in place. “What are you doing here?"

Clint shrugged, as best as he could, considering he was tied to a chair. He didn't seem bothered by this all that much. “Trying to stop her before she killed you.”

Steve shook his head. “Who sent her. How did she-” His face twisted, and Tony's chest ached. “How did this happen?”

"I don't know."

"Start figuring it out," Fury said, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He leaned in. "Because we're getting impatient."

Clint's eyes rolled in his direction. "I don't know," he said, more annoyed than afraid. "I'd tell you if I knew. But I'm mostly just hired muscle. You'll have to ask Lady Natasha."

Steve gave a snort. "You think she's coming back for you?"

"No, I think she's coming back for the Winter Soldier," Clint said. His chin came up, his shoulders flexing against his bonds. "That's why we're here, that much I know. Natasha was trying to stop her, before she completed her mission."

"Why?" Coulson asked. He was leaning against the wall, his arms folded over his chest, his head tipped to the side. Clint's eyes tipped in his direction, but he couldn't turn his head far enough to face him.

"Because I owe her a debt."

Natasha strode out of the shadows, her face set, her clothing worse for wear. She ignored every weapon that was now facing her, heading straight for Steve. "I'm trying to clear that debt from my ledgers."

Tony's arm came up, the armor smoothing into place over his skin. "Don't," he said, as the light flared in the cradle of his palm. 

She came to a stop, giving him a considering look. "I'm meeting the infamous Iron Man, I presume."

He gave her a tight smile. “And I'm meeting the Black Widow.”

"Peggy," Steve said, his voice sharp. There was an unfamiliar note to it, sharp and hard and full of grief. "Was that-"

"It is," Natasha said. She reached up and unfastened her cloak, letting it fall to the ground around her feet. "I knew she was here. I just couldn't locate her.”

"That's why you've been spending so much time with him," Tony said.

She smiled. "Well, not the only reason." Her eyes flicked back to Steve. “I'm sorry.”

“How?” he asked, and she knew what he was asking.

"It was called the Red Room. A program. One run by the old regime.” She took a deep breath. “A program where they made weapons."

"What kind of weapons?" Coulson asked.

Her eyes closed. "Human ones." She looked at Clint. "I could have used your help."

He grinned. "Got a little tied up, I'm sorry." 

"So I see. I'm docking your wages."

His head tipped to the side. "Fair enough."

Steve took a step forward, and Natasha's held up a hand. "I was part of it. Some of us were raised to it. To be assets for the motherland. To sacrifice ourselves without thought, without consideration. We took our missions. And completed them. No matter what the cost."

"Peggy isn't one of yours," Steve said, his voice shaking. "She was never-"

"There were... Experiments," Natasha said, her voice pained. "On prisoners, on people taken from the outlying villages and from outside our borders. Experiments run to create weapons that could be honed, then sent back to their homes. The most effective assassin they could create, one with an intimate knowledge of their target." She looked at Fury. "You've heard rumors, I'm sure."

He said nothing for a moment. "We have," he admitted at last. "I didn't give them much weight, though. Too fantastic."

"The regime used it against people, against areas where there were..." She paused, everything flashing over her face in an instant. "Problems. Resistance. They would take someone, a trusted fighter, a beloved child, and remake them."

"What does that mean?" Steve asked. His face was ashen now, a strange shade of pale that mixed with gray. "Remake-"

It was Fury that responded. "Magic," he said. "Wipe the past. Give them a new set of memories, a new history." His single eye was narrowed on Natasha. "Who were you?"

"The widow of a war hero," she said, her voice aching with exhaustion. "A dancer in the national troupe. An assassin. The daughter of martyrs. A resistance fighter. A regal lady." She spread her hands. "All of that, and none of it. I no longer know." 

Her face was flat and empty, a lovely mask. "I no longer care. Peggy, she was different. She fought it. I think she knew that she didn't belong there, no matter what magics they fed into her head. She didn't know herself, but she knew that much. They told her she was one of us, but-” Her eyes closed. “Peggy knew that was a lie. She knew something was wrong. But what memories she retained were fragmented. They convinced her that her memories of this place came from the times she fought you. But she knew something was wrong with that.”

She met Steve's eyes. "And I know her. The regime was split at the end, when the government toppled. Most of us were eliminated, killed to cover up the magic, to keep others from using the same methods. A few escaped. I had thought she was one of those, I thought that she would find me again. I didn't know, she had a mission. The spell will hold her until she completes it."

"To kill me," Steve said.

"Yes." She looked away. "What is left of her, from before, it knows this place. It knows you. How to get to you. Their best chance at killing you, was her. She was their last failsafe. If the regime toppled, the spell went into effect." Her smile was cold, humorless. "One last Pyrrhic victory."

“How do you know?”

“Because I thought it would be over. When the regime fell, when we took power-”

“We?” Steve asked.

Natasha smiled. “She is the best strategist I have ever met, too,” she said. “But I thought it was over. That the Red Room was over. That my people's suffering was over. It wasn't until after she disappeared, after she went after you, that I learned of the failsafe programs.” Her face twisted. “To my regret.”

“That's why you accepted the invitation to the trade negotiations,” Steve said. 

“Yes. It was an excuse to cross your borders without suspicion, and more than that, I knew she would take advantage of it as well.”

“You came to save me?” Steve asked her.

“No. I came to save her.” Her head fell forward, and for a moment, her beauty, her grace, her deadly appeal, was gone, wiped away. And she was small and fragile, almost childlike. “Because she loved me.” Her head came up, her mouth a thin line.

Steve stared at her. “She's been alive. All this time.”

“Yes,” Natasha agreed. She stared him down. “They held her in reserve. They knew that if they needed to kill you-”

“She's their best chance,” Steve filled in. He nodded, his face flat, empty, but Tony knew him well enough to see the aching sadness in his eyes. “She knows this city, this castle. She knows the people, how they act, what they look for.” He stopped, sinking onto the throne. “She knows me.”

“How you fight. What your strategies are,” Natasha agreed. “After all-”

“She helped create those strategies,” Steve finished for her. His eyes closed. “Up until now, she's stayed hidden. Quiet. Tried to get to me.”

“She stood a far better chance of killing you if everyone wasn't on guard,” Natasha agreed. “Stealth, for as long as she was able to maintain it. Which meant minimal attacks. Minimal casualties.”

“But now we know she's here. And she knows we know it.” He scraped a hand over his face. “Stealth has lost its effectiveness. She's in the city, maybe in the castle by now.” He looked up. “Her best chance of killing me is to draw me out.”

“Yes,” she said. “She will find you, but it no longer matters who gets hurt on her way.”

“We can start focused sweeps of the castle grounds, move outwards into the city-” Fury started, but Tony was already shaking his head.

“She'll kill the guards,” he said. “We're better off with me-”

“No,” Steve snapped. His eyes sliced in Tony's direction. “You. Don't move.”

“Steve-”

Steve got up so fast that everyone in the room took a step back. He stabbed a finger in Tony's direction. “Not. Another. Word.” Tony's teeth locked together, and Steve took an audible breath. “Captain Rhodes.” He turned to Rhodey. “Send the watch out, in teams, no one goes alone, no one goes in twos. Five or more. They are to walk the streets and sound the alarm. Everyone stays inside, no exceptions. The only ones moving the streets tonight are guard, in full uniform. They should be watching for fires, guarding the city's water supply.”

“Yes, sire,” Rhodey said. He bowed, and headed for the door.

“Coulson,” Steve continued. “Take Captain Danvers and guards and fetch Lady Van Dyne and the Genosha delegation up to the castle. Make sure that Lady Medusa and her people are notified as well, but she has better defenses than the others.” Coulson nodded, and went towards the door, and Steve held up a hand. “Wait.”

He looked at Clint, who was sitting calmly now, his legs tossed out in front of him, despite the bounds that still secured him to the chair. “How good are you with that bow of yours?” he asked, his eyes narrowed.

Clint grinned. “Better than anyone else you'll ever meet.”

“It's true,” Natasha said. “His skills are second to none.”

Steve stared at him. “Coulson. Ask Sue to return with you.” Still looking at Clint, he continued, “Counselor Fury. Get Faiza. And have Hill clear the servants and workers from the castle grounds.” His jaw got tight. “We're going to lay a trap.”

“With yourself as bait?” Tony snapped.

“You. Upstairs. We need to talk.” Steve didn't even look in his direction, he just pointed at the stairs. “Everyone else? Let's get started. We don't have much time left.” He turned on his heel and headed for the stairs. “And someone untie Hawkeye.”

Tony's eyes closed, his hands twitching to fists at his sides. Then, a condemned man going to his execution, he followed Steve up the stairs to the library.

*

“What is it?”

Tony sat at the table, one hand braced against the wood. His index finger twitched against the grain, following patterns that Steve could not understand. “The scars. On my chest,” Tony said, not pretending to misunderstand. “Something hit me. When I was out searching for the last piece of the shield. Something magical, it fragmented in the attack, and a few pieces, not all of it, but enough, a few pieces were driven into my body.”

Steve's stomach rolled over, bile stinging his throat. But he didn't say a word, he just waited, trying to hold himself together.

Tony's finger twitched against the table. “Yinsen. He was, he was another prisoner they had taken at the time. He was an armorer, but he was also a sorcerer. He bound it. He couldn't get it out, said that would kill me. But he could bind it, keep it from going into my heart and tearing me apart.” Tony's eyes fell shut. “He bound it to my bones. It's there. Inside of me. All the time.”

“Except when you let it out,” Steve said. 

Tony tried to smile. “Except then,” he agreed. “Took me a while. To be able to control it. We had to work in secret, they were watching us, they were going to- To kill us. But we managed to control it, he taught me, how to form the first rudimentary armor from the magic, and from my own bones. It wasn't much. But it allowed me to escape.”

“He died.” Tony's hand spasmed, fingers curling into a fist. “Said that everyone he loved was gone. The war had taken everything, he had nothing left to fight for, so he just...” Tony's shoulders rose and fell in a half-hearted shrug. “Didn't.”

He stood. “I got out, Rhodey found me and brought me home. And I learned to control it. To make it better, stronger, more flexible. I learned, I built metal from my blood and I learned to harness the power.” He stared at Steve. “Without it, I couldn't fight. With it, I could not stay out of the fight.”

So many battles, where Iron Man had turned up, to save him or support him and Steve blanked his mind before he could go mad with the memories. “You lied to me.”

Tony was still, his back straight, his chin up. “No, actually, I didn't.”

Steve turned on him, fury radiating through every inch of his body, a hot flare of rage, and Tony didn't even flinch. “I asked you if you-”

“You asked me if I forged his armor,” Tony said, cutting him off, one hand slicing through the air. “You never asked me if I was him. Not once. You only asked me if I had forged that armor, and I told you the damn truth, that I'd never forged anything like that.”

“And you consider that lie of omission better?” Steve's hands came up, and he forced them back down, back to his sides. His breathing was ragged, painful in a way that it hadn't been since he was a child, since before Erskine.

“You never asked-”

“How could I have asked?” Steve snarled. “How could I have suspected? His first appearance was within, what, a month of you coming back? How-” He took a step back, physically pulling himself away before he did something he shouldn't. Something he'd regret. “You were barely able to get out of bed.”

Tony said nothing, and Steve's stomach dropped, a cold, empty sensation of loss. “How much of that was-” He slashed a hand through the air. “Was this? You were-” He stopped, and tried to swallow with a throat that was too tight. “How many relapses were because you were doing this?”

Tony turned away, and Steve grabbed his arm. “You could've killed yourself!” Steve yelled, and Tony turned on him, his face twisting in rage.

“What was I supposed to do?” he yelled back. “You didn't have anyone! You wouldn't let anyone near you, you wouldn't take a partner, you barely let the guard protect you, you were so determined not to let anyone else die in your place!” Tony jerked his arm out of Steve's grip, his breath ragged. “Bucky was gone, and Peggy, and you didn't have Sam yet, and the rest of them were too intimidated by you to tell you that you couldn't do this alone!”

He got in close, his face in Steve's, his eyes wild. “You couldn't win a war alone, and you were trying, you idiot. So much grief, and you didn't care, you didn't care if you lived or died and what the hell was I supposed to do?”

“And you thought that losing you would solve things?” Steve asked, and Tony's hand came up, shoving hard at his chest.

“I couldn't leave you, I couldn't, so I did it, I learned how to use it, I learned how to master it, and I used it.” He took a step back, and another, his shoulders heaving with the force of his breathing. One hand came up, fingers folded against his palm, pressing hard against the scar tissue.

Steve took a step forward, and Tony retreated again. “And I'd do it again,” he said. “Because you looked like Yinsin to me,” Tony said. “The way you looked sometimes. And I could not-”

“Why?” Steve was shaking. “Why all the lies, why any of it?”

Tony stopped, his head falling forward. “Why?” He let out a laugh that held not a trace of humor. “Want to know the funny thing?” he asked. He reached up with one shaking hand and shoved it through his hair. “The really, really funny thing? I thought you meant it.”

Steve stared at him. “Meant-”

Tony's smile twisted his mouth, a grotesque parody of his usual grin. “When you asked me. To be your consort. I thought you meant it.”

He straightened up, little by little, as it if hurt, as if he couldn't quite pull himself together. “I agreed. And that first night, I sat up. The entire night. Waiting for you to send for me, or come to me, or-” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “All night. And in the morning, when it was clear that you weren't coming, I went looking for you, I had thought I could at least have breakfast with you.”

The smile died, everything died, his face going blank and still and tired. Achingly tired, as if he hadn't slept in far too long, as if he had forgotten what sleep was. “Found you in the kitchens, same as always, and the first thing you did was throw me in the path of that sweet scullery maid who fawned over you.” He shook his head. “The second thing you did was ask me how the armor repairs were going.”

Steve's pulse was thudding in his ears, too fast and too loud and he was confused why Tony couldn't hear it. 

“You never wanted me,” Tony said. He looked up, and his eyes were empty. “You never once-” He nodded, a sharp dip of his chin. “You just wanted me to keep everyone else at a safe distance. But you never, not once-” 

Breathing was an agony, and he struggled with it, with the concept of it. “Tony, that wasn't-”

“And despite that, I have served you. In every way that you have ever asked of me,” Tony said, his voice soft. “And I have served you in every way you needed me to. Even if you were too big of a fool to ask for it.”

He stared at Steve, his face twisted. “And you have the gall to ask me why?” He leaned forward. “Because I loved you, you damn fool. I loved you enough to lie to you. I loved you enough to deceive you. I loved you enough to play the fool, every day of my goddamned life, from the time I was seventeen, I loved you.” He shoved his hands through his hair, and his fingers were shaking. “Before then. I think I loved you, just from the stories my father told me, I wanted to hate you, and I couldn't even manage that.

“I loved you.” He spread his hands, his expression bleak and empty. “And you never wanted me.”

Steve struggled for control, but he was fumbling in the dark now, helpless and frustrated. Tony could do this to him. More than anyone else. Tony was the one who twisted him up and turned hm around, made him question his own mind, made him question his sanity. Tony could have him yelling in a matter of minutes, and could make him laugh in half that.

It was always Tony, always. Everything. And the fear he'd felt when he'd known it was Tony, about to get a blade in the throat, was something new. Something terrible and familiar, or all that he'd never known it before. It was a fear that he'd harbored, unacknowledged, since the day that Tony had disappeared. Probably from before that.

“I couldn't lose you,” he whispered. “It was never-” He stopped, his throat closing up on the words. “Tony. I could not lose you.”

Tony's mouth kicked up. “And yet, you have.” He turned, and headed for the door. “And you can banish me, you can toss me in the dungeon, you can strip me of my lands and my fortune and my title-” He turned, stabbing a finger in Steve's direction. “But I'll be damned if you'll do any of those things until after we've stopped her, until after you're safe.” He wrenched the door open and stalked out, slamming it behind him.

Steve collapsed into a chair, letting his head fall into his hands, and wondered how his heart could still break.

*

"It would appear that you are a dangerous man."

Tony looked up from his drawing. "I'm not the one slipping uninvited through a man's window in the middle of the night," he pointed out, leaning back in his chair. 

The black clad figure paused on the windowsill, crouched low, a dark shadow against the night sky. "Are the guards outside your door for your benefit, or to your detriment?"

"A little of both, it would seem." Tony eyed the window. There was no sign of rope or ladder. "How did you get up here?"

The man held up one hand and flexed his fingers. The tips extended into wicked points with the sound of metal sliding on metal. "Climbed."

"So I see." Tony turned back to his work, his pencil moving quickly over the paper. "Might as well come the rest of the way in. If you were mad enough to climb the tower, I shouldn't turn you away, your majesty."

The figure pulled off his mask, and T'Challa smiled at him. "So you are the Iron Man."

"And you are the Black Panther," Tony said, sinking back into his desk chair. "Interesting."

"Is it?" T'Challa took a seat on the windowsill. "I would have thought my identity, like yours, was obvious."

"It should be. But I managed to keep my secret for a few years, at least."

"Many years." T'Challa leaned forward. "How?"

"How did I keep my secret?" Tony shrugged, reaching for another sheet of paper. "By depending on the common knowledge of just how long it takes to put armor on."

"I do not understand."

Tony swung around in his chair. "If you were to speak to me, as I am now? And walk away?" He stood, and let the armor form around him in the moment it took him to find his feet. By the time he was upright, the armor was in place, no longer thought, no longer liquid. "Then would you believe I could be the same man?"

T'Challa didn't even flinch. "No. I would not." His head tipped to the side, his heavy lidded eyes narrowed, but he seemed more interested than shocked. "Interesting," he said. His head tipped back. "It is solid, is it not?"

Tony held out an arm. "Feel for yourself."

Without a pause, T'Challa reached out, brushing a finger over the surface of the metal. "Very interesting." He cupped a palm beneath Tony's armored wrist, lifting the arm up, and tilting it in the light. "And you control this."

"To an extent," Tony said. He tried for a smile, and felt it die on his lips. "Sometimes it feels like it controls me."

"As is often the case with great and powerful gifts." T'Challa moved his wrist, studying the flex of the joint with narrowed eyes. "You cannot form it, but around your own body?" 

"I can't separate myself from it, no." Tony shrugged, the metal moving with him. 

"What happens if it breaks?"

"I scream. Quite a lot." Tony dissolved the helmet, leaving the rest of the armor in place. "I'm not certain if it's because the armor is part of me, or because any force sufficient enough to damage it is going to damage what's under it as well."

"Likely, both." T'Challa's hand flashed out, those blade like claws flashing into existence as his gloved hand cut through the air. They glanced off of the breastplate, striking sparks with the pass, but the armor held, the impact barely marring the color. "What happens if it is damaged beyond repair?"

"It doesn't hold its shape any longer." Tony shrugged. "Or I die. I'd prefer not to find out which."

"This seems wise." T'Challa considered his hand. "These are vibranium tips." He shook out his hand, and the claws disappeared. "If they cannot cut through, then any attack that can would likely kill you."

“Probably,” Tony agreed. He reached for his book, closing it and setting his desk to right. “As I said, I'm not interested in finding out, your majesty.” He looked up. “May I ask to what I owe the honor of your visit? At this time of night?”

“I was concerned.” T'Challa moved around him, picking up a page of sketches. “You cannot think this will work.”

“You were concerned that my latest shield design wouldn't work?” Tony asked, amused despite himself. “It seems you went through a lot of trouble for-”

T'Challa waved him off. He picked up a pencil and set the page back down, leaning over it. “I was concerned by your absence.”

Tony considered objecting as T'Challa started making alterations to his work. But it was an interesting concept. “Enough to climb the side of a sheer rock wall. Of course.”

“I was hoping to find an answer or two,” T'Challa said. His hand moved quickly, steadily, over the paper. 

“About my identity? Or Iron Man's?”

“To find out the truth of how you repaired that shield.” Without looking up, T'Challa pointed the pencil in Tony's direction. “This, this explains much. But still. I should like to hear you explain.” His head canted up. “How did you restore what was broken?”

Tony studied him. He took a deep breath. “Do you know how it was broken?”

“No.”

“Neither do I, not really. His majesty would never speak of it, would never tell me what happened.” Tony's shoulders flexed as he struggled to hold himself still. “The battle was an ugly one, and when he returned, it was with his men, and without the shield. He said only that he'd saved the right thing.”

T'Challa was silent, his face unreadable. Tony glanced at him, and away. “It was passed around, as a trophy, amongst our enemies, the broken pieces. I managed to get most of them back, but without every fragment, I couldn't even attempt a repair, I knew that much.

His skin was crawling, prickling with heat, and Tony folded his arms over his chest, holding himself together. “I heard a rumor of one last piece, when I was on the front lines. I'd brought a load of weapons, and thought I could...” He shook his head. “I was captured, by a faction called the Ten Rings.”

“I have heard of them. They were very powerful for a time, and then, they disappeared. No one knows what happened to them,” T'Challa said.

“I happened to them. But not before they happened to me.” His fingers cupped the skin over his breastbone, feeling the heat radiating there. His fallen star, swallowed down and buried in his bones. “I made it out, ut I took the magic with me, a magic that was very much tied to the metal, to all metal.

“How did I fix it? I came to understand the metal.” His fingers rolled against his chest, over the breastbone, and he could almost imagine the contact striking sparks like flint on steel. “I-” He shook his head. “I can't explain it. But it's burned in my bones. I understand the metal.”

T'Challa's hand stilled on the paper. He set the pencil down on the page. “I believe you do,” he said at last. His face was unreadable when he looked at Tony. “What will you do now, Lord Stark? Now that you are both consort and prisoner? Hero and betrayer?”

“I will serve my king and country,” Tony said. Because he was so tired, he was so amazingly tired right now. He couldn't think about it, not now, maybe not ever. He scraped a hand over his face. “Same as I have always done.” For years. For so many years.

"So what will you do?” T'Challa asked, his voice quiet. "Stay here? Wait for him to be married? And hope that his new spouse does not mind your presence?"

T'Challa pushed himself upright. "Even if a marriage is made for political reasons, it is hard enough to make a place in a new land, amongst new people. Most would seek to have you make a marriage of your own, or exiled far from the capital."

"Or killed," Tony said, his lips twitching.

"Less common, but not unknown," T'Challa agreed. He looked at Tony. "A former lover complicates things."

Tony's smile was tight. "We're not actually lovers. You know that."

"It matters not what has truly transpired between you. The appearance is strong enough that your continued presence is a threat." T'Challa shook his head. "And I know that no matter what your protests, you would not have agreed to this unless you had an attachment to him."

"Yes, well." Tony flexed his shoulders. and dissolved the armor. The heat collected beneath his breastbone again, and he ignored it. It would pass. If he waited long enough. "I have learned my place, your majesty."

T'Challa nodded. "Have you considered taking a different one?" Tony glanced at him, and he smiled, wide and bright. "Come back to Wakanda with me and my people when the delegations leave."

Tony stared at him. "What?"

"You have great skill with your craft. You learn quickly, and you are very clever. We can teach you, and you can teach us." T'Challa spread his hands. "See more of the world, and let us see if your trick with the vibranium will work again."

Tony sat down, a little harder than he'd intended. "You don't let outsiders past your borders."

"I do not let many outsiders past my borders." T'Challa crossed his arms over his chest. "We guard our secrets as well. But you may just have things to teach us."

"So I'd be useful." 

"What other reason is there to take an apprentice?"

Tony laughed, and the sound caught him off-guard. "Well, at least you're honest about it," he said, his voice wry. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I appreciate the offer, your majesty. But I have a responsibility to my people."

"You mean, to him." T'Challa shook his head. 

"To him, then," Tony said, too tired to argue. "I will protect my king."

"And you are in this room, with guards at the door." T'Challa pulled the hood back over his head. "It would appear he does not want your protection. Or does not trust it."

"Is that supposed to change the fact that he's going to get it anyway?" Tony asked.

"Then you are a fool." He chuckled, just a little. "But a very loyal fool. It is the best kind." He tugged the mask over his head. "I know his plan."

Tony's back went straight, tension rolling through his body. "How?"

"That is my secret. If you would like to protect him, I can give you the tools."

Tony was silent for a moment, considering that. "And what do you want in exchange?"

"For you to consider my offer."

"My answer is no." Tony took a step forward, towards the window, the armor rolling into place around him. "But ask me again, when this is over."

T'Challa nodded. “I will, my friend.”

Tony took a breath. And wondered if he'd survive that long.

*

She could wait forever.

She didn't need to do anything but wait. She knew him, somehow. She didn't question it, she knew better than to question it. She had a mission, she had a target, she had a goal. She was always given the tools she needed to accomplish her mission. They had always given her the weapons she needed to do what she needed to do.

To kill her target.

But she knew this place, she knew this man, no, that wasn't right. She didn't know anything. She understood what she had been given, that's all. That was different from knowing. She wasn't sure how, but she was certain of it.

She did not know him. No matter how often her unstable mind tried to convince her otherwise.

He would come out, soon. He walked the edges of the walls every night. Tonight would be no different. He would walk the walls, because they needed to see him. 

Because he was a foolhardy, stubborn-

Had she allowed herself movement, she would've pressed a hand to her eyes, to stem the ache in her temples, to ease the pain that plagued her. But she could not move.

She could wait forever, if she needed to.

The guards passed below her, around her, and she did not move. She just waited, her eyes fixed on the battlement walk. When the door opened, her legs tensed beneath her. The figure backed out, pulling the door shut, tall and broad and familiar, no, not familiar, in the heavy blue cloak of a king. His blonde hair caught the light for an instant, before he pulled the cowl up over his head, and she frowned.

He stepped out onto the walk, and it wasn't him.

But it was. The height, the way he walked, the way he stood, the gleam of his polished black boots and the crisp, expensive fabric of his pants, of his shirt. The shield, bright and shining, was on his back, and it was him.

Except it wasn't.

Her teeth gritted, pain screaming through her head as she tried to make the two thoughts make sense. The attack was fierce, but brief, and she let her eyes close. She breathed out, a single word, almost silent, but the monster shadows heard her.

The first movement in the courtyard brought his head around, and that shield came off of his back with a crisp, easy moment. It spun out, perfectly on target, and the Hydra spawn went down with a howl of pain. Before it even fell, the Winter Solider was moving.

It was the King, and it was her mission, and she lunged, fast and hard.

He didn't have the shield, and she was on him in an instant, tumbling from the alcove high on the wall, and swinging herself into his path. Her foot clipped his knee, and he went down with a cry of pain. She brought up the metal arm, a knife curled in her fist, and sliced at his throat.

She was hit from behind, and the two of them rolled to the side, scraping the edge of the wall. She fought back with all her strength, fists and feet, fast and violent. Every blow was blocked, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw the king roll away, and the cloak fell away from his face.

Not the king. The archer.

The Winter Soldier slashed out with the knife, realigning her world. The archer was on his feet, and she got free from the target, just long enough to kick him over the edge of the wall. The king let out a choked off yell, making a grab for him, but was too late.

His face had a strange expression of confusion on it as he tipped back, falling towards the unforgiving stone of the courtyard.

A streak of red light carved through the night, and the archer was picked out of mid-air, the Iron Man crashing down to the courtyard with his burden. They hit, and hard, but both rolled away, rolled to their feet. The Iron Man looked up, but there were Hydra spawn everywhere now, and people were screaming now.

“Hold them to the castle, do not let them reach the city!” the king yelled down, and the courtyard was chaos, but it was chaos that would keep them all away from her fight. Long enough for her to finish her mission, because he didn't have the shield, he didn't even seem to have a weapon.

And she had a target.

She turned, the blade slicing through the air, straight for his throat, and he blocked it, the flat of his wrist slamming into hers. Her fingers rolled on the hilt, changing the grip, and she attacked again, under his guard, around it, moving faster than he could, countering his blows almost before he could make them.

In the empty, echoing expanse of her mind, something stirred, a faint sense of panic or fear, and she didn't know why. She didn't understand. She ignored it, attacking with a ferocity that knocked him back, knocked him down. Hit harder, hit faster, to snuff it out, to smother it before it could spread.

He was on his back now, and she was over him, and her knife was gone, only the gleaming metal of her fist left as a weapon. She drove it down, at his face, and he caught her hand in his. His fingers wrapped around her fist, holding her still. Her face twisted, a silent howl, as she pushed down, straining the bones of his fingers, his wrist, his arm.

“Don't.”

The single word was soft and light, and she flinched as if it was a blow. He stared up a her, his face pale, his skin wet with sweat, his blue eyes open and staring at her.

For an instant, his face was gone, this face was gone, and she saw him, or someone like him, small and thin and with bright eyes and a stubborn jaw. This man and the other man tried to merge, memories like lightning flashes across her mind, and she wanted to scream. 

“I don't know you,” she gritted out, spitting it in the man's face. The target's face. The mission's face. There was nothing else here, no man, no person, no memory, just a mission. “I do not know you!”

It was a scream, and he smiled. “But I know you, Peggy.”

Everything came apart, and she stared down at him, faces rolling through her mind, faces, so many faces, so many names, and she didn't know any of them, she didn't know what any of it meant. But the memories were there, fragments and splinters, bits and pieces, and names. So many names.

Only one mattered, at the moment.

“Steven?”

She didn't know what the word meant, she didn't recognize it, she didn't know why she said it, but it felt right on her tongue, as if it had been there before. She stared down at the target, and tried to understand.

“Who am I?”

A hand slipped over her eyes, and she didn't even have time to panic before a familiar, an achingly familiar voice whispered into the shell of her ear, “Sputnik.”

Everything went black.

*

Steve's heart stopped as Peggy went limp, her body slumping against his. Natasha, right behind her, took some of the weight, her body bent against Peggy's back. “What did you do?” he asked Natasha as she rolled Peggy away from him. “What-”

“A word to break the spell,” Natasha said, and her voice was shaking, her face white as bone. Her head was bent over Peggy's, her fingers trembling as they stroked over the line of Peggy's throat, over the curve of Peggy's lips. “I'd used it before, to no effect. I was hoping she was far enough back to herself that this time, it would work.”

Steve sat up, and everything hurt, every inch of him was in agony. But he sat up. “Did it?”

Natasha looked up, and there were tears in her eyes, on her cheeks. “Yes.” Her smile wasn't big, or broad, but looking at it hurt. There was so much relief, so much hope, in that small twist of her lips, that it made Steve's eyes burn.

“I think she's herself again,” Natasha whispered, and Steve nodded.

“What did you say? Sput-”

“Sputnik. A word from home,” she said. “It means, well, a literal translation would be 'fellow traveler.'” She looked up, and so did Steve, but when Peggy had fallen, the attack had fractured, and now, Sue and Queen Wanda were back to back, blue and red magic splitting the air as they corralled and crushed the last of them.

There was the sound of boots on stone, and Steve turned. Clint was standing there, resplendent in Steve's court outfit. “She back?” he asked.

Natasha nodded. “Yes. As much as she can be. It won't be an easy road to put her to rights, they've done too much damage, but...” She raised the metal hand to her mouth, pressing her lips against the star there on the wrist. “We have her back.”

Clint nodded, his shoulders relaxing. “Thank the heavens.”

“Thank you,” Steve said. He wanted to get up, but moving away from Peggy was more than he could even manage right now. He stayed put, his fingers light on the back of her hand. 

Clint nodded, his mouth kicking up in a wry smile. “Can I keep the clothes?”

“They suit you. But I want my shield back, that was unpleasant,” Steve said, smiling back. His lower lip was split, and he wiped the blood away with the back of his hand. “It's like Jan said, the clothes make the man. Luckily, she had finished these.”

“Luckily, they fit somewhat,” Clint said. To Natasha, he said, “What do we do now, my lady?”

“Find a place where she'll be safe, to recover.”

Steve looked down into the courtyard, and his people were there, at a safe distance, giving him his privacy, giving him time. In the center, flanked by Rhodey and Carol, Tony was standing there, black ichor splattered the red and gold of his armor. Steve gave him a nod, and Tony turned away.

As much as he deserved that, it still hurt.

Steve took a deep breath, and held out a hand. “I know just the place.”

*

“How is she?”

Natasha looked up. “As well as can be expected.”

Steve waved a hand. “Can I- Or is she-”

“No.” Natasha's smile was warm. “The spell is broken, and over the past few days, she's shown nothing but constant improvement. If she tries to kill you now, it's because she wants to.”

“Hopefully I wasn't that bad a friend to her.” Steve stepped inside. The room was big and open, with large glass windows, open now to let in the sunlight and fresh air. “Has she woken yet today?”

“Once or twice,” Natasha said. She was curled into the chair beside Peggy's bed, her face pale and drawn. “The magic has deep claws.” Her lips curled up, her expression softening. “But she is strong, stronger than she should have to be.”

Steve smiled down at Peggy. She was still and quiet now, her face a bit older than he remembered, a bit more angular, and her hair was shorter then she'd worn it. But the soft curls against her forehead were familiar, and the sweep of her eyelashes against her pale cheeks. It had been a particular agony staying away from her, giving her time to recover before forcing her to deal with his presence. “She always was,” he said.

Peggy's lips parted. “Flatterer,” she whispered, the word rusty. Her eyes fluttered, and opened. She looked up at him, and Steve grinned down at her. “Steven.”

“Peggy.” Her hand twitched on the blankets, and Steve reached for it, the movement cautious. But as soon as he got close, Peggy's fingers caught his. “Thank God.”

She smiled, and her eyes were wet. “I'm sorry-”

“Don't.” He squeezed her hand, as gently as he could. He could feel the delicacy of her bones underneath, so slim and fine beneath the skin. “Don't. I'm glad you're back.”

Her eyes closed, and one tear slid down the plane of her cheek. “Such sentimentality,” Natasha said, and Peggy let out a faint laugh, watery and uneven. Natasha propped her chin on one fist. “Don't worry the boy, he looks like he's going to cry at any moment.”

“I probably will,” Steve agreed, and Peggy was laughing now, and that was more familiar than anything else.

Natasha rolled to her feet, one graceful leg slipping out from under her dress. “Since you are here to keep her from fleeing or doing something else unbearably stupid and maudlin, I'm going to fetch some fresh tea.” 

“Bring me a cup?” Peggy asked, smiling. Her fingers tangled with Steve's.

“No, you don't deserve it,” Natasha said. Her fingers brushed across Peggy's forehead, sweeping the dark curls away from the skin. The gesture was almost unbearably intimate, for all that the touch was fleeting.

“And yet you're going to get it for me anyway,” Peggy said, her eyes closing again. “And something sweet.”

“Only because you're terribly thin,” Natasha said. Smiling, she slipped out of the room.

“So, she seems nice,” Steve said, and Peggy laughed again. 

“You're not the first man to think so,” she whispered. Her eyes danced. “She's very tricky that way.”

Steve's eyes slid over her face. “You love her, don't you?”

Peggy's cheeks flushed. “Yes,” she said. She met Steve's eyes without flinching. “My memory is... Spotty. Fractured. I remember you. In bits and pieces.” Her fingers slipped from his, her hand coming up to touch his cheek. “I remember being here, I remember my-” She swallowed. “My life. But it's not-” Her mouth got tight. “I've lost so much.”

Steve leaned in. “It's all right,” he said, because he had to believe that. “You have time. To figure it out, to remember.”

She nodded. “What if I never do?”

His eyebrows arched. “Then you have time to make new memories. Don't you?”

Peggy smiled, sweet and warm. “Oh, Steve. Always so melodramatic.”

He caught her hand in both of his, and leaned forward to kiss it. “You're safe now.”

She nodded, a bare dip of her chin. “Where am I?”

“The Rand house,” Steve said. “It isn't being used, and Lord Daniel's steward offered it, since as far was we could recall, you'd never been here.” He smiled. “Thought it best not to confuse you any more than we had to.”

“I appreciate that,” Peggy said. She smiled, just a little. “So much has changed.”

Steve looked down at her, expecting to feel some sense of loss, some pain. But instead, there was just a warmth in his chest, something like contentment. “Yes,” he agreed. “But some things never change. You're still the most brilliant strategist that I've ever known.”

“And you're still reckless and foolhardy,” she said with a smile.

“Only when I have reason.” 

He heard the door open, and glanced back over his shoulder. Natasha had a tray braced against her hip. The expression on her face was almost concerned, as if she wasn't sure of her reception. Steve smiled at her. “You're welcome to stay here for as long as you'd like,” he said. “Both of you.”

He stood, facing Natasha. “Let us know if you need anything. Anything at all.”

“Where are you off to?” she asked, her lips curling up. 

“I have my own apologies to make,” Steve admitted. He looked at Peggy. “You are welcome here. You can stay, or you can leave. The choice is yours. Carol's going to be staying here, because she's one of the few you might remember. She'll be here if you need help.”

“Thank you,” Peggy said. She smiled. “When do I get to meet him?”

Steve's face flushed. “Soon. I hope.” He grinned. “I'm glad you're back.”

She stared at him, her face expressionless. “I could have killed you.”

“You didn't. And you're safe. That's all that matters.” He looked at Natasha. “You were serious about not starting a new war?” She nodded. “Then don't hurt her.”

“Don't go to war over one person, you mad fool,” Peggy said, smiling.

“Why not?” Natasha asked. “I would.” She inclined her head. “Thank you.”

Steve nodded back. “Thank you. I'll come by tomorrow, and I'll bring some of the sweet nut buns that May makes.” He arched his eyebrows. “Do you remember those?”

Peggy's lips pursed up tight. “I'm not certain,” she said, humor curling through her words. “It's all so foggy. Best you bring extra so I can remind myself.”

Steve pointed a finger at her. “That was shameless.”

“I use the tools that I have.”

He smiled. “Yes, you do. I always liked that about you. Welcome home, Peggy, for as long as you'd choose to stay.”

She nodded. “Thank you. King Steven.”

Steve slid out the door, pausing for a moment to glance back. Natasha was leaning over the bed, her expression soft, her fingers smoothing Peggy's hair back from her face. He closed the door as she leaned in for a kiss.

He was glad to leave her in capable hands.

*

There was no smoke rising from the smithy chimney.

There was no reason there should be, of course, they'd all had a long few days. But Tony always retreated back there, even when exhausted, tinkering and building whenever possible. Steve always knew where to find him, whenever there was smoke rising from the chimney, or the bell like ring of hammer on metal came ringing across the courtyard.

Tony had been avoiding him, and Steve had been avoiding Tony. It was easy enough to accomplish, with the end of the negotiations and seeing first one, then another trade delegation off. There were repairs to make, and the last of the Hydra spawn to hunt down, and Steve had been busy.

Steve had made sure that he'd been busy, to avoid thinking about the fact that Tony hadn't come to his rooms, not once since the Winter Soldier's initial attack.

Now, the smithy was quiet and still, the shutters closed up tight and the chimney cold. And for some reason, Steve's stomach twisted. His footsteps speeding up, he moved across the courtyard, heading for the door. The smithy was empty, the hearth cold, and Steve froze, his hand still locked on the door handle.

“What did you expect?”

Steve turned. Sam was leaning against the well, his arms crossed over his chest. Redwing was perched on his shoulder, wings fluttering as his head tipped from side to side. Sam arched an eyebrow. “He's gone, Steve.”

Steve stared at him. “What-”

Sam pushed himself upright. “He packed some of his tools, and left.” He shook his head. “What did you expect, Cap?” His eyes were full of sympathy, almost of pity. 

“What are you talking about?” The words were barely audible, it felt like his chest was caught in a vise. Panic clawed at the edges of his mind, at his throat. “Where did he go?”

Sam shifted Redwing to his arm, stroking a finger over the bird's head. “He left with T'Challa,” he said, and Steve's stomach bottomed out.

“How long ago?” he snapped.

“Leave now and you can catch him before they reach the crossroads,” Sam said, and Steve was running across the courtyard, full tilt, for the stables. He saddled it with as much haste as he could manage, and in a matter of minutes, he was swinging himself onto the horse's back. In the courtyard, Sam was waiting for him, Steve's shield in one hand. He held it up as Steve went by, and Steve grabbed it, never slowing his horse.

In moments, he was across he drawbridge and galloping through the city as fast as he could, without putting anyone in danger. The horse, well rested and well fed, thundered down the road, and Steve gave him his head, letting him run.

He wasn't sure how long it took, not as long as he'd feared, and way longer than he wanted, before he saw the horses ahead of him on the road. They were moving at a leisurely pace, and those in the rear turned, catching sight of him. Steve brought his shield up, as close to a flag as he had, as he came charging down the hill.

Halfway there, he spotted T'Challa in the lead, and beside him, on the familiar roan mare, was Tony. His saddlebags were nearly as large as those of T'Challa's party, hanging low behind him, the handle of one tool or another poking out of the flaps. Steve charged forward, cutting through the ranks. On some level, he noticed T'Challa holding up a hand, waving his people back, but Steve didn't give a damn about anyone other than Tony, who had turned in his saddle to stare back over his shoulder. 

Steve cut in front of them, bringing his horse to a dancing stop. “Don't,” he managed, blocking the road in front of them. T'Challa raised an eyebrow, but he was smiling, just a little, as if he'd already won, and it took everything Steve had not to just throw the shield at his face. Protecting himself from the impulse, he slung the shield on the back of his saddle, securing it in place as quickly as he could.

Tony wheeled his horse around. "Your majesty?” His face twisted. “What's going on? Is something wrong, is Peggy-”

Steve brought his horse around in front of Tony's, as close as he could. “I never wanted to use you to protect myself,” he said.

Tony's head snapped back. “What?”

“I told myself, I wanted to protect you,” Steve said. He kept his gaze on Tony's face, forcing himself to meet Tony's eyes. “That after all your injuries, after everything that happened, I had to protect you. And making you my consort was the easiest, most efficient way of accomplishing that. I had lost so much, I had lost everyone, everyone I had. I had lost everyone, and I couldn't bear to lose you, too.”

He sucked in a breath. “I made you my consort, because that was the greatest protection that I could give you. That was the way I could give you every protection that the law allowed. That was the way I could keep you from going to fight.”

Tony was shaking his head. “I know-”

“That's what I told myself,” Steve said, determined now, determined to tell the truth, the ugly, nasty thing that had been in his head for so long, unspoken and jealously guarded. “But it was a lie. I know it was. I was-” He stopped, feeling his face heat. “I hated sharing you.”

Tony's mouth dropped open. “Your majesty?”

“I hated-” Steve gritted his teeth. “Everyone adored you. And after you stopped courting Pepper, I knew it was only a matter of time before another took her place in your affections, and I couldn't bear to lose you.”

Tony stared at him. “Are you feeling all right?” he asked Steve after a moment. “What are you-” He waved a hand. “Why now? Here? What are you thinking?”

“I think I loved you from the first time we met,” Steve said and Tony stared at him, his expression incredulous. Steve grinned, acknowledging that truth for the first time in a long time. “I think I did. Everyone was so distant. So fearful, no one spoke to me anymore, I felt like I as drowning. And then there was you, who didn't give a damn that I was king. I loved you, even then.”

“Well, you have horrible taste in men, then.” To T'Challa, he said, “I threw up on his boots.”

“And then tried to punch me,” Steve added. He sucked in a breath. “I don't deserve you. I don't- I shouldn't ask it of you.” His fingers tightened on his reins. “But I love you. Don't leave. Please.” He shook his head. “Don't leave me. I don't know what I'd do without you.”

Tony stared at him, silent, and Steve's heart sank. 

“I know I don't have the right to ask it of you. I know you are better off elsewhere, that there's nothing here for you to learn, and none of this is within my rights, but please.” He swallowed, choking on the knot in his throat. “Please stay. In whatever capacity you want.”

The silence stretched, and Tony took a deep breath. “Cap,” Tony said at last, his voice very careful and very gentle. “I'm going to the bridge.”

Steve blinked at him. “What?”

Tony's smile was slow, slow and warm, and it lit his face. “I'm going to the bridge. Reed's waiting there. We still have-” He clapped a hand over his mouth. “We have repairs to make,” he said, the words muffled. 

Steve stared at him, his mind an utter blank. “What?” he repeated.

“I am-” Tony turned his head away, and the distinct sounds of laughter worked their way between his fingers. “Oh, God, Steve, I'm not-” He looked at Steve. “You thought I was leaving.”

“With T'Challa,” Steve said. Nothing made sense. He felt dumb, his brain not working at nearly the correct speed. “He said he was going to ask-”

“And I did,” T'Challa said, sounding amused. “I made him a very generous offer, to come and study with the master craftspeople of Wakanda.” 

“I declined,” Tony said. Steve stared at him. Tony's eyebrows arched. “I let him know that I'd be happy to visit, if I were allowed, but-” He smiled. “I had a responsibility to my king.” 

“You were leaving with him,” Steve said, because some fears couldn't be shaken so easily, some nightmares clung to the mind even after waking. 

“I was going to meet Reed at the bridge,” Tony said, patient, as if he was speaking to a child that needed comfort. Steve figured that wasn't far off, if he was being honest. “And since T'Challa was leaving by way of the main road, I asked if I couldn't ride along with his delegation until we reached the bridge.”

“I saw no reason to refuse him,” T'Challa said. “After all, you'd been much worried about his safety these past few days.” His teeth flashed in a smile. “I suspected you wouldn't want him making the trip alone.”

Steve's eyes closed. “You weren't leaving.”

“No. He was not. Perhaps he made the correct choice,” T'Challa said. “But since he is now safe in your company, I shall take my leave.” Steve opened his eyes and found T'Challa smiling at him. He inclined his head. “I am glad to have met you, your majesty.”

Steve nodded, ignoring the rising feeling of humiliation that heated his face. “Thank you. For your assistance.” 

“You are welcome in my lands at any time, Tony Stark.” With that, T'Challa spurred his horse, and the Wakandan delegation began to move. Tony turned his horse aside, and in moments, he and Steve were the only ones left.

“So,” Tony said.

“I don't suppose you could be persuaded to forget all of that,” Steve said.

Tony's eyes tipped up, and he pretended to consider that. “No,” he said. “Did you really think I was going to leave you?”

“I wouldn't have blamed you,” Steve said. He gave Tony a tight smile. “At all.”

Tony sighed. “Unfortunately, I am far too attached to you, your majesty.” He slid from the saddle and led his horse off of the road.

“You're a fool,” Steve said. He couldn't move. He couldn't hope. Even when Tony pulled the reins from his hand and walked his horse off of the road and into a nearby pasture. 

Tony stood there, stroking the horse's neck. “Are you planning on coming down?” he asked.

“I'm fine right here,” Steve said, staring straight ahead.

“Did you know that your ears turn a lovely red color when you're embarrassed?” Tony asked.

Steve's eyes closed. “I never-” He swallowed. “I wanted you.” He looked down at Tony. “All the time. Every day. I dreamed of you.”

Tony's mouth gaped open. “Steve-”

“But I didn't want you to feel obligated.”

Tony was laughing now. “What?”

“I didn't want you to feel that you had to-” Steve rubbed a hand over his face. “I am your king. And I didn't want you to-”

“You thought you were using your authority to coerce me into sleeping with you?” Tony interrupted.

“It was a concern,” Steve said.

“You're an idiot.” Tony clapped a hand over his eyes. “Oh, my God. Do you know the amount of sex we've missed out on?”

Steve's whole body twitched. “You can't just say things like that, Tony. You can't-”

“Just did. Likely, I'll do it again.” Tony was breathing hard. “I love you. And you apparently love me. Are you planning on doing anything about this?”

Steve stared down at him. “Yes,” he said, and he slid off of his horse. 

Tony took an awkward step back, trying to give him space, and Steve's arms closed around him, half lifting him off of the ground. Tony let out a tiny sound, like something of shock or confusion, but before Steve could let go or back away, Tony's arms closed around his neck, pulling his head down. 

He'd expected that first kiss to be awkward, or strange, but somehow, it was the most natural thing he'd ever done. He'd dreamed of this so often that it was like phantom muscle memory, his body tangling with Tony's. 

“Reed is waiting,” Tony mumbled against his mouth.

“He can damn well wait,” Steve said, unable to lift his mouth completely away from Tony's skin. He whispered the words against Tony's jaw, his throat, his ear. Desperate, needy, he pulled Tony closer. “I have.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Tony said, his fingers sinking into Steve's hair, dragging him back down. “I am ever at my liege's command.”

The rush of arousal was so strong, so dizzying that for an instant, he had trouble breathing. “I love you,” he said, because those were the only words he had left, the only thing that made sense at all. 

“And you've chosen to tell me this several miles from the city,” Tony said, his head falling back. “You could not have waited for me to get back? Preferably naked?”

“I didn't think you were coming back.” Steve kissed his throat, his chin, his lips, greedy little touches, coaxing and demanding at the same time.

“Then you're a fool.” Tony caught Steve's face in his hands, grinning. “I haven't been released from my duties to the king.”

Steve leaned his forehead against Tony's. “And if I don't want to be a duty for you?” He sucked in a breath. “I never. Wanted that from you.”

Tony stilled. “What do you want?” he asked, tucking his head into Steve's shoulders.

He didn't even think about it. He just lifted Tony off of his feet. “You.”

Tony was laughing now, his arms looped around Steve's neck, his lips brushing Steve's. “That, you've always had. I've no idea why it's taken you this long to take advantage of the fact.”

“Neither do I.”

*

“I was warned about getting involved with someone below my station,” Tony said, the words soft and thick. “And yet, here I am.”

Steve laughed against his skin, not quite able to pull himself away from the contact. “Luckily, I wasn't.”

“No, no, I am a man of noble birth and upbringing,” Tony said, one of his hands sliding through Steve's hair, playing idly with the strands. “I was raised to make a good match and perhaps, if absolutely necessary, have a mistress on the side, but I knew my duty, make a good match with someone of breeding.”

Steve nuzzled his neck. “Is there any reason you're bringing this up now?” he asked, tongue flicking against the sensitive skin under Tony's ear, making him shudder and buck beneath his weight.

“I'm involved with a farmboy,” Tony said, his tone mournful. 

“Soldier,” Steve corrected.

“Farmboy who goes to war when he thinks it's absolutely necessary,” Tony said. 

“I don't think that-”

“Steve, you have the biggest, softest bed in the entire kingdom, and you're bedding me in a haystack.”

Steve grinned. “I can't imagine what you have to complain about,” he whispered, his fingers sliding up Tony's sides, feeling the muscles flex under his touch.

“Oh, really? You dragged me into a field,” Tony said, laughing. “You dragged me into a field, and tossed me down into a haystack and proceeded to have your way with me. And you can't imagine what I have to complain about?”

“I put my cloak down first,” Steve said, against Tony's mouth. “As well as yours. And while I was doing that, you managed to get your shirt off, so you seem happy enough to be here.”

“I managed to get my shirt off, and your shirt off,” Tony said, sounding proud of himself. “Would've gotten your pants, too, if you hadn't been so eager to get me on the ground.”

“Yes, it's all my fault,” Steve agreed. He pulled himself away, reluctance in ever movement of his body, because he needed the contact. But he needed the visual more, of Tony bare to the waist, his pants unfastened and low on his hips, sprawled on the blue of Steve's cloak. His face was flushed, his eyes dark, his hair a tumble of dark curls and strands, and his grin had a wicked edge to it, as if he knew just how he looked, all that sun-kissed skin and muscle.

“Like what you see?” Tony asked, laughing, even as he stretched one arm up over his head to snag a piece of straw. He brushed it against the tip of Steve's nose.

Steve batted it away. “You know I do,” he said, settling his hand on the flat plane of Tony's stomach. The muscles there fluttered under his touch, and he leaned down to kiss the skin just below Tony's belly button, just to make him twitch and moan.

“Farmboy,” Tony managed on a groan.

“If you didn't want to be tossed in a haystack, you shouldn't have left without telling anyone what you were doing,” Steve muttered against Tony's stomach. “Do you really blame me for panicking when I found out you'd left? With T'Challa?” He glared up at Tony. “This is entirely your fault, Lord Stark.”

Tony yelped as Steve's teeth nipped at his stomach. “How- Ah!” He grabbed Steve's head and pushed him away. “You- No!” Laughing, he tried to roll out of Steve's grip. “No, that is- You are-” He grabbed at Steve's shoulders and pushed. “You are a tyrant and your name will go down as a man without principles or pity!”

Steve grabbed Tony's wrists and pinned them down. “I am a just man pushed far beyond his limits by your treachery.” He grinned down at Tony. “At this point, you'll have to plead your case pretty effectively not to end up in the dungeon.”

“Oh, is that what we're calling your bedroom this week?” Tony's grin was filthy. “Thought we'd ease into this relationship, but I can work with this.”

Steve felt his face heat. “You are incorrigible.”

“Yes, I am,” Tony said, grinning. “As to the other, my lord, my love, your esteemed majesty, I did, in fact, tell someone. I told Sam.”

Steve froze. “What?”

Tony rubbed a hand through Steve's hair. “I told Sam, I was going to find you, but he said he'd let you know, and I was already late, and I guess I'm later now, or maybe not coming, hard to say.” Steve gaped at him, his mouth hanging open. Tony's lips curled up in a grin. “Sam didn't tell you, did he?”

“I am going to kill him,” Steve gritted out.

Tony started to laugh, and Steve buried his face in Tony's shoulder. “I will absolutely- He is a dead man,” Steve said, and Tony's hands smoothed down his back, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of Steve's pants.

“I take it that Sam will have left on an extended mission by the time we return?” Tony asked.

“I think it's safe to say that's correct.” Tony was laughing, and Steve felt it through his whole body. “That's fine. I can wait until he gets back to beat him to a bloody pulp.”

Tony's fingers squeezed, and Steve arched against him with a gasp. “Or you can thank the man for the help.”

“I could. But I won't.” Steve rolled over, taking Tony with him. Tony landed with his knees on either side of Steve's hips, his arms folded on Steve's chest, his body curled close. “I'm going to kill him.”

Tony leaned over, his mouth hovering just over Steve's. “You don't have many friends, my liege. I don't think you can afford to kill what few you possess.”

Steve's eyes fell to Tony's mouth, and he licked his lips, wanting the taste of Tony's skin again. “I'll take my chanses.”

“And if I want to beg mercy for him?” Tony asked, his breathing ragged.

Steve's pupils dilated, his lips parting. “You want to buy him a boon?”

Tony leaned in, his lips nearly touching Steve's. “May I, my lord?”

Grinning, Steve pulled him down for a kiss. “I think we can come to an agreement.”

“I suspect so. I hear you've become quite the negotiator,” Tony said, the words whispered against Steve's lips. “But my first demand-”

“Yes?”

“An actual bed. I've been waiting for this for years, and there is straw everywhere.”

Steve laughed. “Nobles and your delicate skin,” he said.

“Indeed, my lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for following along, I hope it was worth it! This was one of those ideas that was more fun in my head, and I had a lot of trouble with it. 
> 
> Thank you, and thanks for my two talented artists. 8)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Ghosts of War Artwork](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2687387) by [Arin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arin/pseuds/Arin)
  * [Cover for The Ghosts of War by Scifiglr47](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6246238) by [Fabulae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fabulae/pseuds/Fabulae)




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